


It's Currently Untitled

by hazzahandsome



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: ....yeah., Alternate Universe - College/University, Cheating, Depression, M/M, english major!zayn, photographer!harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 47,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazzahandsome/pseuds/hazzahandsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could feel the sun (as dark and dank as it was) forcing it’s way through the few slits available in his closed curtains and hitting parts of his face. The outside world. Where they wanted him to speak to others. Where they thought it was okay that there was even the slightest possibility that he could run into Mark James - a tragedy he was sure he couldn’t make it through. </p><p>Not that he would start to cry, or anything. He really wouldn’t. He’s tougher than that. Really.</p><p>[Harry's a photography major who loses his inspiration, motivation, and /himself/ - when he learns his long term boyfriend has been sleeping with somebody else. His best friend, Niall, decides it's time for Harry to leave the flat - so he finds him a job at a dingy bookstore. Zayn likes to read.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently a bit messed up on this story. I've posted up to a certain point on tumblr, and I've decided that adding it here might give me a push. [Also, it's /called/ 'It's Currently Untitled'. That's the name - in case you're confused.]

"Ya really need ta pull yerself toge’er," Niall groaned helplessly from his end of the couch. He kicked out both bare feet to knock roughly at those laying heavily above him and arched to sooth the growing ache in his lower back. "I say dat as yer friend."

Not moving a muscle, Harry mentally snuggled into the blanket covering his and Niall’s bodies and sank himself deeper into the couch cushions - the scent of spill’t beer and horrid despair seeping into his nostrils. He grunted in response and kept his eyes trained on the television screen in front of him. Completely and utterly done with everything.

"Are ya list’nen to me?" Niall asked, with one eyebrow crooked up into his hairline. 

Niall.

For all intents and purposes - his only true friend left. The only person who stuck with him (and bless him for it), through The Shit Storm that had dampened his spirits way beyond repair. Metaphoric hair fallen sad and flat against his forehead. Although Niall, himself, was a bright and happy person - who didn’t for a second think Harry was un-salvageable.

It was _hard_ to be around somebody so excited about each new day, when Harry wanted to die a painful death. But, no matter how much he grumbled and looked away (and tried not to start crying in public), Niall would just clasp an arm around his shoulder and ask if he was feeling like ice cream.

His eyes felt heavy and his heart ached (a familiar _thudthudthud_ ) continuously, over and over. It wasn’t even strange, anymore. To be so upset and crushed that he couldn’t breathe. It felt normal. To want the hardwood floors to open up and swallow him whole. To never have to see a pair of blue eyes - attached to a head - attached to soft red locks that felt lovely if run through by his finger tips, but to desperately still want to.

But not really.

It was complicated.

Louis Fucking Tomlinson.

That was who picked up his world, which was so nice and comfortable and content, and shattered it on the ground all with a joyful smile plastered on his face. Eyes crinkling and laughter cackling. Harry could _swear_ there was maniacal horror music and bright bursts of lightening exploding behind him, as he did so.

Harry had introduced them. That was the final awful twist of the dagger to his heart. He hadn’t known Louis that well, just from the random party somebody would throw on campus that Harry would invite Mark to go to with him.

Louis congregated in Harry’s crowd. They weren’t similar, actually, in any way. But Louis was a friend of a friend of a friend and he’d been funny and nice. Harry had liked him at the time - he reminded him of his own boyfriend, with similar interests and similar aura’s. And Mark liked a good friend, so he had called him over.

Looking back, it had obviously been a mistake.

You are not supposed to like somebody who is so similar to you. You’re supposed to become best friends and hang out when your boyfriend has a lot of course work and can’t pull himself away. And go to concerts that you’ve been waiting a year for. And talk about movies that your boyfriend hadn’t actually understood.

You’re not supposed to _fuck_ somebody who is so similar to you. And you’re especially not supposed to do it when you’re in such a good relationship with someone you love and who loves you right back.

More than anything.

But that’s what happened. That’s how Harry found them.

Louis Fucking Tomlinson and Mark Fucking James, who was supposed to be the love of his life.

"Ya should prob’ly leave da flat," Niall continued through his thoughts. "Fresh air might do ya some good."

Harry let his eyelids slowly fall closed. He sighed, at first contently at being shut off from the light and then secondly, disturbingly at having to open his mouth to speak. “I do go outside,” he mumbled into the blanket shoved up by his mouth.

"When does dat happen, exactly?"

He cracked his right eye open slightly, and glanced up and over the covers to where his friend was facing him, “…When the pizza man comes to the door.”

"Dat doesn’t count and ya know it!"

A sudden hushed breath forced itself out of Harry’s throat, accompanied by a low insulted laugh. “How very rude of you,” he coughed. “I’ll make sure to tell him that next time he shows up.”

"Soon yer gonna run out of takeaway money. Den what are ya gonna do?"

Pulling the blanket up over his head and his greasy un-showered curls, Harry silently wished his Irish Beast away, “You live here too, and you’ve got to eat. So, I’ll just take some of yours.” He could hear the signature laugh puncture through his wall.

"I don’t fuck’n think so, mate," Niall barked happily. "I got ya a job."

 _That_ caught Harry’s attention and he raised with a jolt (albeit a lazy one). “Excuse me?” he started - a frown placed securely in the creases of his forehead. “You can’t even get _yourself_ a job.”

"Yeah, well. I’m not rott’n away from a soul suck’n depression-"

"Neither am I-"

"-and tak’n ev’ryone I know wit me. _Don’t_ ya even start,” Niall jumped in to cut off his impending rant. His eyes softened slightly at Harry’s face, though. And he quickly swept a hand through his golden locks. “Look, I even had meself a dream the o’der night about becom’n gay and ask’n ya out just so ya’d get over dis, already.”

Harry could feel his face squishing in a half-hearted anger and his mouth twitch up briefly in a small hardly there smile.

"Yeah, yeah. I know it. Yer definitely not me type, i’der. It was a terrible dream," he grinned then and reached an arm out to wrap around the back of Harry’s head and pull him in to give him a sloppy kiss on the forehead. "I get it, ya know? Like, yer sad and all, but yer also a fuck’n mess."

A glance down had Harry looking at the navy jumper he’d been wearing for three weeks straight (Mark had gotten it for his birthday a few years prior, and no he would not admit he was having a few teary moments whenever he remembered that small fact) that had a few toothpaste stains present and smelled like shite.

And he’d been wearing the same pants for longer than he should probably admit out loud.

Unsanitary. Just unsanitary.

Oh well.

"Actually, Niall. I’d prefer to not have anymore human interaction…," he spoke, with his eyes trained on a small hole at the bottom of the fabric.

"It’s a book store, da one on Main Street… I can’t remember what it’s called," Niall continued to inform Harry despite his obvious lack of interest. "Ya like books and all of dat artsy shite."

A genuine smile cracked on Harry’s face, then. It wasn’t large. His dimples didn’t shine back at Niall, but it was an actual smile - despite how small. “Artsy _shite_?”

"Yeah, wit yer pictures and ev’ry thing. It’ll be fun!"

"Yeah… my _pictures_.” He drew his knees up to rest hard under his chin and let his eyes scan over his friends’ face, just as the light from the screen did. A casual and constant hint of amusement. He couldn’t even think about his work, right now. “You can tell, whoever-“

"-Gary-"

"Okay. You can tell Gary, ‘Thanks for the job, whatever it is exactly. But no thanks’." 

Harry let his fingers drift down towards the hole and dance around the loose strings frayed at the edges.

"Alright," Niall started with a groan, as he dragged his body out from under the covers and off of the couch. "Dat’s enough down faces fer me. I’m gonna head off ta bed - early class." Harry could feel a set of blue eyes check his face for any sign that he would jump out of their fourth story window - and deciding there were none (at that very moment - Harry hadn’t been as lucky in the past), turn to start a trek down the hall. 

Harry let out a breath of relief at being alone once more. Well, no. If there was anyone that he currently didn’t mind spending time with, it was Niall. Everyone else…. they either pried or avoided him by a ten foot pole. A lot of his friends - “friends” - thought it was best to give him some space - “space” - once things hit the fan and he became a recluse. Yes. Harry had been having People Problems for the past few weeks.

"Ya go in t’morrow at two!" he heard hollered one of from the back rooms.

And then the sound of a closing door.

~~~

Harry didn’t even need to open his eyes to know that he had overslept. Of course, “overslept” was a term he had been using fairly loosely, lately.

He could feel the sun (as dark and dank as it was) forcing it’s way through the few slits available in his closed curtains and hitting parts of his face. The outside world. Where they wanted him to speak to others. Where they thought it was okay that there was even the slightest possibility that he could run into Mark James - a tragedy he was sure he couldn’t make it through.

Not that he would start to cry, or anything. He really wouldn’t. He’s tougher than that. Really.

Rolling onto his stomach, Harry mashed his face deeper into his pillows - nose going crooked - and willed himself to go back to sleep.

When an unwelcome knock sounded at his door.

"Ya have a class!" Niall reminded him with a surprising sturdiness that rang foreign on his tongue. Not enough to pull Harry’s focus, though. "I’ll call Anne! Tell ‘er what a slacker ya are!"

That did.

His mum had always been supportive of his educational decisions - didn’t mind that he wouldn’t ever have a courtroom falling at his feet. In fact, her voice perked up whenever he mentioned that he was working on a new gallery topic - even if he could never find a proper place to put it up. 

But, before his own mini meltdown, he had been feeling really good about his _pictures_.

Harry groaned and shoved up on his elbows. 

That’s all they were without his own seal of approval. Just _pictures_. 

He turned his neck in both directions - stretching the sleep out of himself. The objects littering his walls. _Photos_. Completely different. Things he loved. Prints that had his heart swell even if it didn’t others. Some in a bad way, but still an emotion.

There were a lot of pictures of a HappyHarry with an equally HappyMark.

He should really take those down.

He should.

"Don’t you dare knock again," Harry snapped his face forward towards his door, with a suspicious knowledge of a pair of feet making their way towards him. "I’m up… You’re going to be late."

His throat felt hoarse.

He glanced back towards his nightstand and alarm clock to see it only seven. In the morning. Seven.

Harry couldn’t wait to have a life where waking up at seven meant didn’t mean you were running late. God. Any smart and happy human being was still asleep at that hour. And what kind of artistic degree (that wasn’t drama) had classes so early in the morning, anyway?

A few tired blinks had him bringing two closed fists up to the corners of his eyes and harshly scrubbing away the sleep that lay there. He didn’t want to go to class. He didn’t want to move. He was tired of classes and talking.

Pulling himself off of the mattress (as lethargically, as he possibly could), Harry forced himself over to the pile of clothes he had been avoiding washing (he used to be so clean - a bit anal about it actually) to grab a pair of dark wash jeans. Squatting down, he took hold of a pair of pants he hadn’t seen in awhile and brought them up to his nose to get a sniff of how far gone the were.

Well. They were cleaner than the ones he had on.

So, he ripped the pair panted onto his skin off and pulled the other pair and his trousers back up his thighs.

Good enough.

On the other hand, he was still wearing the same jumper. And if he actually convinced himself to leave the flat - everybody would be able to see. 

People he didn’t even know, would know that under his scarf was his coat and under his coat was a jumper that his cheating scumbag ex boyfriend Mark Fucking James had bought for him two years ago.

How horrific would that be.

He was sure there was a brown jumper with a turquoise pattern under his bed somewhere - his mum had bought him that one - and he set out to find it.

~~~

Photo after photo showed up on the giant screen at the front of the large room. It was quiet, except for the droning of his professor and the _shlickschlickschlick_ of the slides.

The red of his rubber ran back and forth on the flat of his desk - shards of breakage scattering across the surface, as he mindlessly dragged his hand in a circular motion.

He could almost fall asleep - and was working hard not to - in the darkened room.

Adjusting the beanie on-top of his head - Harry jerked suddenly and let his eyes fly open to see the lights back on and the projector being set away. “I hope you’re all not forgetting about your midterm projects!?” Professor Feyne called out, as students gathered up their things and prepared to exit their seats. “Subject! Style! Story! The Three S’s!”

Harry hadn’t even started.

"Have a story. Have… a _concept_ ,” Feyne continued - keeping them all in their seats for a few seconds longer and Harry could swear, making eye contact with him. He tried not to fidget. “I don’t want story boards with no purpose. Don’t just turn in a bunch of photos of… doors. _Unless_! There’s a _reason_. Why doors? Why _those_ doors?”

Nothing. Hadn’t even tried.

"Don’t fall asleep on me, okay you guys? Don’t give up. If you haven’t got it yet… you’re artists. Just because you’re in school - doesn’t make it any different."

The happy had been sucked out of him. He wasn’t an artist.

"And if you need further inspiration," Professor Feyne continued on, staring them down one by one with a gleeful (but friendly enough) smirk. "This is worth _half_ of your grade. Don’t fuck it up.” The occupants of the room groaned, though some only did it with a playful intent. 

Feyne was an alright guy. A bit young.

All of his classmates started to rise and he did so, as well, on autopilot - dragging on his outerwear and mumbling to himself about getting home, catapulting into bed, and falling asleep for the next six years.

He _had_ started his midterm a few weeks ago, actually. There was this “Friends Out and About” theme going on. Though, he would never of called it that. Not very original, he supposed, but he’d been enjoying it. And almost all of his pictures had aspects of Mark in them, and they were happy and joyful and he hated them.

"Styles! Hang back, if you would?" he heard called from the ground below - snapping him out of his thoughts.

"…Sir?" Harry raised his eyebrows, slung his bag strap over his right shoulder, and started down the stairs. Feyne looked up from a cardboard box, as he neared closer.

"Am I boring?"

"…I’m sorry?"

Feyne laughed calmly - he didn’t look mad - and continued to sort out his slides for whatever his next lesson was. “Because, my mum tells me I’ve always been a fun lad - good to be around… so, I was just wondering if you think she’s been lying to me all this time?”

Harry wasn’t sure if this was the sort-of question he was supposed to actually answer. Or, if it was the sort-of question that “adults” just liked to mess you up with. So, he chose to just stand there. Hope for the best.

"Okay, listen," Feyne broke in, once he gathered that Harry wasn’t a fully functioning human being. "I have this feeling.. Yes, this feeling that your project isn’t as under way as it should be. Which I find… surprising, because you take some great pictures."

 _Pictures_. “I… I’ve started,” and he could feel his face contorting all ugly and Feyne scanning it with an amused grin.

"Yes, okay. I _don’t_ believe you. Something will come to you, you know?” Feyne shoved the final slide into place, and Harry kept his eyes trained on the spot. He hadn’t mentally prepared himself to deal with Failure, today. “You’re actually one of the Three S’s. Just keep your eyes open, Styles. Something beautiful. Or _ugly_. Or strange… It will cross your path and—”

Harry could feel a sheen of uncomfortable sweat start to form over his forehead, connecting to the grease hairline. 

Maybe he should start to shower again? Even _Niall_ was starting to look at him funny. 

All he knew was he had to get out of that room and away from that stare. The stare that said ‘I’m requiring you to engage in actual communication’. He could feel the second hand of the clock on the far wall ticking away his life, as his Professor reminded him of what a loser he was. A Non-Happy Non-Artist who apparently wasn’t good enough at anything to keep his boyfriend happy and with him. Anything to get away.

"—I have to get to work," he butted in and then recoiled in his mind. No. Not what he meant to say.

"Alright then. Wouldn’t want you to be late. Where do you work?"

"Oh you know, bookstore…. doing book… stuff…. It’s new, I should…"

Feyne grabbed a piece of chalk and started writing out a lesson plan for a first year class - things Harry hadn’t seen in a long time. “See you next class, Harry. And get started on your project.

Moving as quickly as he could, he headed towards the door, “Yep…. I’m on it.”

~~~

It actually felt good. The water. 

It’s strange, but he had actually forgotten what it was like to have clean hair. Refreshing in the simplest way.

Harry stood stock still and let the stream poor over his head, down his shoulders, and the slope of his back. Washing away the shampoo and soap.

If he was going to show up to the gig Niall had gotten him, he probably shouldn’t be fired right away. Bad manners and his mother had taught him better than that.

He’d just quit whenever seemed best.

Besides, if he did’t go - Niall was apt to call his mum again. And Anne Cox was nothing if not a worrier. Niall had rung her after he found out the reason Harry had locked himself away in his room for a week, for advice. Best friends or not, he’d hadn’t known what to do. She would’ve driven down if Harry hadn’t of called to say that he was fine.

Of course he had been crying during that conversation, but he was sure she didn’t notice. Totally sure.

Hopping out of the shower, he ran a quick towel through his hair and pulled his same outfit back on. Not exactly trying to make an impression.

Grabbing a hat and pulling on a pair of shoes, he made his way out the door.

~~~

England was cold. He should move. Jamaica seemed nice. Someplace warm with water he could swim in all year round without freezing to death. If he could ever actually take a picture again, he could capture the waves and the sand. The wind. If he moved to California, there was a possibility he could run into Katy Perry - and god damn, he could appreciate all she was, even if she wasn’t his preferred.

A beautiful woman is a beautiful woman.

Harry continued his leisurely stroll down 5th - taking time he didn’t have to arrive at a job he didn’t really want. 

Of course, he wasn’t an idiot. He could see - he knew - the state he was in. He had just chosen to accept that UnhappyHarry (HorriblyDepressedCan’tProperllyFunctionHarry) was the only Harry left. Did that suck? Yes. Was that just how it was going to be? Also yes.

He supposed the idea of more money was alright, though. More pizza, came with more money. More beer. More coffee. More film, if he ever got around to wanting to use it. He let his fingers slide down a strap secured along the length of his neck, which connected to the camera he always had with him when he went out.

Not much use, lately.

The book store on Main Street. ‘ _Book Ends’_. How clever. Actually, he really did like it. He liked simple humor.

Niall said Harry liked bad puns.

Turning onto Main Street, he passed the two shops necessary and stood outside the store. He hadn’t gone here much - just to get coarse books, because they sold them at a cheaper price. But, that wasn’t really what the place was full of. Actual books, with actual words. Nothing that required a test and full of boys and girls who bought them one at a time, because they’re all Uni Poor.

Pulling the door open, Harry made his way inside and towards the counter. “Excuse me? I’m looking for… Gary,” he spoke to a pixie cut, blonde girl flipping a magazine. Her blue eyes looked up, bored at first and then interested. 

"I can totally help you," she smiled a toothy smile and brushed her bangs back out of her eyelashes. "I’m Meg, by the way."

"Hi, Meg," he pulled his hat off, lent his head down, shook out his hair, and replaced his hat. "You can help me, by leading me to Gary? …my friend, Niall, got me a job… so, here I am."

"Oh, _Niall_ ,” she purred with a satisfied smile, pulling back her come hither eyes and directing them in a vague nowhere direction. “Yeah, Niall’s great. A _lot_ of fun. So… you must be his sad socially inept friend, Harry?”

He could feel his eyes flat line and Fuck Niall, “…Yeah… I’ll thank him for that later.”

Meg smiled wider (if that was even possible), red lips stretching with it, and dipped her chin down, “ _I_ can thank him for you, later, if you want?”

"….. Would _he_ want that?”

"Ohhh, I’m _positive_ he would.” Harry blanched and Meg closed her magazine. “I’ll go get Gary.”

~~~

There’s something about trying not to think about anything in the comfort of your own home. It’s simple. A familiar quiet. You can sink into the cushion of your mattress and pull your blanket up over your head and try to forget whatever’s taking hold of you. 

Of course, it’s also, unfortunately, more probable to just start crying.

Sitting alone, behind a counter, while twenty-some-year-old University students meander up and down aisles and pretend that they actually love to read (and they’re not just trying to do the “cool” thing in their new environment) was a totally different sort-of silent.

Probably the opposite of Niall’s intention.

Harry could feel his thoughts barring down onto him, as the seconds ticked by. A tall boy with a pimply face would ask about an astronomy section (which Harry had no clue about, and completely led him in the wrong direction - despite the fact that the store wasn’t large), and a quick image of Mark’s lips slated with Louis Tomlinson’s would flash through his mind. Gary would start explaining the cash register, and traumatizing visions of two naked individuals (he had Walked In On Them) would have him pinching his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

A week.

A week he’d been there - and Gary was great. He was calm on explaining how the shop worked and what to clean and how to organize. Only watching him for a short periods of time and concern whenever Harry’s mind would shut down and his body stilled - in some weird un-explainable stroke. 

Niall stopping by on the often to hang out on his lunch (or dinner, depending his shift) was a nice touch, though.

All things considered, however, the job wasn’t helping his mental state much, in the way Niall had wanted it to. More than likely fucking it up worse, if Meg’s, ‘We need to get you some help, mate's' and his psychotic strokes were anything to go by.

He should quit.

Harry _had_ taken a few pictures, though. Nothing interesting. Nothing concrete. Nothing he’d _ever_ turn in for a grade. But, there was something nice about the way rays of light shone through the windows onto piles of books customers left stacked up on the coffee tables next to the giant orange chairs. He liked the dust just starting to pass through and getting suspended in time.

Pretty. Pretty and unoriginal.

But, pictures.

Feyne had hounded him about it upon his next entrance into the classroom. The second his foot crossed the threshold, his professor had started spewing a lot of things Harry hadn’t understood, about ‘sensing his finger had touched a shutter button’. Terrible.

“ _Hello_ ,” a sharp annoyed tone had him lifting his eyes from the imaginary lines he was drawing on the flat of his trousers. Another nameless face. Another nameless face with a Bitch Complex. “I’m trying to spend money in your store. _Jeez_ is that a problem?”

Christ, he wanted to go home.

"Oh shit… sorry," Harry heaved himself up on off the stool set up behind the counter and closer towards the register where he grabbed for the book she was purchasing. The fact that he was ringing up a copy of Twilight _Twilight_ for this nameless face irked him to no end. That that was the book she just _had_ to have. 

It wasn’t even the one with the pointless apple on the cover. Movie poster version. 

That’s what his life had come to. Sudden strokes, snarky side comments from Meg and anyone else who very easily decided to punch him while he was down, and selling young adult literature with Robert Pattinson’s face on the cover.

He was sure his mum would be proud.

Growling out her total in his best angry voice (which in all honesty, was practically non-existent), he took her money and placed the book (as slowly as possible _just_ to savor the bustling rage on her face) into a plastic bag. “..Come back soon,” he added and extended his arm to have the bag ripped away.

As he slumped back into his seated position, Harry wondered to himself if he’d always been this bitter. Like… underneath all of the nice.

He hadn’t thought so, but it would sure explain a lot.

The small bell at the front door rang out, just as Harry looked up to check on the time. 5:30. He would get to leave soon and check out of the world once more. Niall was likely to ask if he wanted to go out and Harry would say no. Maybe they’d watch the show about Z List celebrities diving to, essentially, their deaths. Maybe not.

Niall considered that progress, that he’d even bother to consider.

Harry would not. What was better than mindless awful television, to stop the images? Not much.

"Hey, H." Meg’s presence engulfed his senses, as she slithered over to his seat and lent next to him against the counter. She was invasive sort-of person, with a frantic energy when she felt it necessary. Other than that, she spent her time chewing gum and asking how Niall was.

Harry had gotten the impression back at the flat that his friend had gone there and hadn’t planned on going back. Apparently she wasn’t exactly his type and flirted with any attractive thing that stepped through the door. “Oh my god, he’s here,” he heard Meg buzz and glanced towards her adjusting her shirt, “How are my tits?”

"…Excuse me?" He whipped his head all the way up and fixed her with his green eyes as shocked and confused, as possible.

A double take back had Meg had her offering him a hushed, You’reSoNaive, chuckle. “That’s right, you’re new! Sorry.”

She didn’t sound very sorry. And if her wordlessly moving around the counter and down the poetry aisle was any indication, she most definitely wasn’t.

5:35. Time didn’t move at all. Meg’s shrill voice sounded from a ways away and Harry had a fleeting moment where he felt sorry for whomever was on the receiving end of her flirting. But, he put it out of his mind once he remembered some reading from one of his required literature classes - and grabbed his bag stuff at the bottom of his feet, to grab ‘ _Great Expectations’_. Of which he did not have.

Shoving his stool back against the wall, Harry threw his feet up against the edge of the counter and turned to his last page he had begrudgingly been on.

~~~

Twelve or so minutes had past and Harry was deep enough within his rhythm that he hadn’t noticed the customer at the register.

"That’s a really good one," a voice (a really nice voice) spoke softly - pulling him away. "Required reading, probably?"

When Harry pulled his own eyes from the words on the page, he was met with deep hazel ones and a mop of shiny black hair, that looked carefully disheveled. “Uhm, yeah it is,” he gave a delayed response, as he took in the boy in front of him.

He was tall, just a bit shorter than Harry’s own height. Everything else about him was the opposite of Harry’s features, as well. 

Whilst Harry was built of soft, rounded edges - the guy placing three books down onto the counter was entirely constructed of sharp and pointed lines. His jaw cut off at the edge. Strong and pronounced. And his nose was a straight slope down. A set of arms seemed frail and small underneath a baggy grey t-shirt, which were holding onto a denim jacket in the crook of his elbow.

In contrast, covering his Hazels were a set of long (inhumanly long) eyelashes and frost bitten red lips.

Harry refrained from allowing his fingers to reach for the the camera strapped around his neck.

"It’s, like, a classic," the creature in front of him carried on, whilst reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. "You’ve just got to forget you’re reading it for a lesson… and you can, like, see why."

"….Right…okay," He took one last glance at his camera, before starting to ring up his stuff. Another boy filed in (next the the one Harry had been staring at) and looked back towards the aisle from which he came. One eye flick over, and he could see Meg following them. "…Sorry about Meg…" Harry apologized. Over a sharp, foreign shoulder - he watched the blonde point again and again at the guy with the denim jacket. "She’s… a character."

The tall, buzzed boy to the left spoke up and punched his friend lightly in the shoulder and emitted a giggle of sorts that Harry hadn’t expected. It suited him, though. “Oh yeah… We come in here a lot. Used to her, I guess.”

"Thirty twenty-two is the total." Harry wasn’t sure how much he should speak on the subject, so he just kept on. "I’ve only come here a _week_ … so, I suppose I’m not.”

He earned a small smile on that one, from the boy in front of him and a large one from the boy to the left. 

God he wanted to pick up his camera, but started to place the books in the appropriate bag instead.

"Cool, I’m Liam," the buzzed boy smiled and lent in to read the name tag he was required to pin to his jumper. No uniform. Yes name-tag. It seemed a fair trade. "Harry? Harry. That’s Zayn," he jabbed a thumb over towards the raven haired boy. "You will eventually get sick of seeing his face - he likes his books."

A large hand reached up to grab the handles, and a tattooed sparrow caught Harry’s attention. His camera. God damn it.

"This place has good prices, ya know?" Zayn shrugged and started to slip his jacket back on. "Thanks." 

Nodding (apparently as moronically, as possible), he clasped the edge of the drawer with his thumbs and slid it closed. He watched the two of them _Liam and Zayn_ walk back towards the front door - Liam chatting happily and Zayn _Zayn_ listening with a content, subtle smile on his face.

Once the door fell shut, and other noises (which probably hadn’t actually gone silent) started to sound again - Harry reached down for his camera, clasped the edges, and brought it up to his eye.

Adjusting his focus, slightly, he stared for a few seconds at the empty space where Zayn _PhotogenicZayn_ had stood.

And snapped a picture.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was just it. Harry was more than positive the he would not figure it out. What the fuck was he even photographing? A bench? A chair? Empty spaces? It was starting to feel like a physical representation of his mental state. Sad and alone and unintentionally uncomfortable.

He hadn’t meant to stand there for as long as he had been, but his eyes had accidentally caught the back wall of the refrigerator .. and he couldn’t seem to move away. He was cold - chilling temperature floating out and across his skin, which wasn’t any sort-of surprise. Looking in, he could see they were running out of milk… And cheese. Best to go to the market. Niall might go.

His knuckles gripped tighter onto the handle, as he tried to remember the reason he had bothered to get up off the couch.

He couldn’t think of one. Was he hungry? Sort-of, if he thought about it. No. Not really.

His mind flew to his prints spread out all over the living room floor.

Harry had been sitting behind the counter at _Book Ends_ for almost a month, now. Sitting behind the counter. Stocking shelves. Keeping lesser loved sections dust free and neat. Playing games on his phone. Dodging long conversations with Meg, but eating lunch with her, too. Taking care of assigned reading. Checking people out. And all the while The Creature with hazel eyes and raven hair would walk in. And browse. And buy. Say hello. Comment on whatever Harry was reading and offer ways to make it more interesting. Recommend complimenting books. And then pause. Forget his words, or maybe (Harry thought highly probable) realize he was talking to nobody important. And make a quick exit.

And yet, in all of that time - Harry still hadn’t gotten a photo of his face. Or shoulder. Knee cap. Anything.

It had been horrible and fantastic all at the same time.

A pair of keys sliding into the key hole on the front door, rang somewhere in his mind, and the latch clicking open made his eyes twitch. “Hey, Haz!” Niall called out and shuffled his way through the doorway and into the living room. Harry heard him pause and take in the mess he’d created. “What’s all of dis?!” he questioned - his voice peaking in the middle with curiosity and (Harry thought) a certain tone of glee.

He didn’t move when a flushed Niall poked his head through the kitchen doorway - a large smile on his face. “Are ya work’n on somethi’n?”

Harry assumed his head nodded on it’s own accord, because his friend was making his way into the kitchen and moving to clap him solidly on the back. The contact snapped his gaze off of the back of the fridge, and he let out a small sigh. Maybe he needed a doctor? That would probably be therapy. No. He didn’t want to go to therapy, though his mum would definitely pay for it if he thought it necessary…. No. “It’s not, _something_ …. It’s just…. I’ve got to turn in a project…. of some sort.”

He stepped back, slid the door shut, and turned to the left to find Niall’s red face and wide eyes. A gloved hand waved aimlessly around his face, “Yeah, it’s freezi’n out.” 

Niall started pulling at his gloved hands and the green scarf wrapped twice around his neck. There was a small four leaf clover at the very end and tiny writing that said ‘I reserve the right to kiss you whenever I want’.

Harry had had it made for him during their A-Levels.

That brought a small smile to his face.

"Das grand. Really," Niall spoke up, once he’d pulled off all his outerwear. He then, started waving around a brown bag Harry hadn’t noticed him holding. "Chinese."

Wordlessly, Harry backed away from his friend and went for the cabinets that held all of there plates. The clinking of the silverware drawer shuffled behind him, and Niall’s footsteps headed back into the living room.

A normal night was good for the soul.

As he walked out of the kitchen, he paused to watch Niall try and organize the large sheets of paper and prints scattered around the room, without messing anything up. Despite being the older of the pair - he wasn’t the best at cleaning up and organizing, so it wasn’t going very well. “I’ve got it, stop,” Harry interjected once Niall dropped four prints in a row.

"What are dey of, anyway?," Niall questioned - grabbing the plates out of Harry’s hands and setting them on the coffee table. He had to dig around under the couch for the remote, before he turned the television on. "What’s it gonna be called?"

"I don’t…" Harry stilled to look over the images of random nothingness. An empty counter. An empty chair. An empty aisle. An empty bench across the street from Book Ends. There was nothing, if he was being honest with himself. And he was. Nothing. "I don’t… have a name for it.."

The far gone look just under his eyes had Niall retracting his next words and changing the channel to ITV1, so they could watch the next live show on X Factor. Niall liked the short girl with purple hair and a guitar. She was sort-of spunky and she liked talking back to Gary. Which was a plus for Harry, because everything than man said annoyed the shit out of him. Harry hadn’t paid enough attention to truly like anybody, though. But, he did like listening to Niall scream at the judges, as if they could actually hear him and cared about his opinion. “Well.. ya know you’ll figure it out.”

That was just it. Harry was more than positive that he _would not_ figure it out. What the fuck was he even photographing? A bench? A chair? Empty spaces? It was starting to feel like a physical representation of his mental state. Sad and alone and unintentionally uncomfortable.

Harry also felt like a bit of a stalker. He felt like _Meg_. Oh dear god - he definitely needed a doctor.

"…Yeah." He just couldn’t seem to will himself to raise his camera, when he was actually _there_. Zayn.

 _Zayn_. Who bought four or five books (big books) a week and spoke in small and quiet increments. _Zayn_. Who’s loudest octave seemed only existent whenever Liam was at the store with him. Who’s smile widened every time Liam threw a strong arm around his shoulders. It was a good smile. Nice teeth. There was something lazy about it, as if he was trying to fight against those corners going as sharp as the rest of his face.

It would look fantastic on film.

But, he just couldn’t seem to take it - and instead waited until he was gone - out the door - and down the street. _SnapSnapSnap_. “I’ll figure it out.”

~~~

"For the love of god. The Short Stories are a _mess_!”

Harry glanced up from the game of Brick he was playing on his phone (which was placed flat on the counter top), to Gary shoving a cardboard box on the free surface. He had his elbow set and his head was planted firmly in his palm - and he struggled to capture the frustrated groan that attempted to escape him.

"And what the hell is going on with this counter?!"

Harry let his eyes scan over the surface, which was littered with receipts and inventory sheets that he didn’t tend to read very carefully. He hadn’t been trained for that… but he supposed it was part of the job.

The Job. Which was sort-of a type of public isolation. A contradiction. He could mope and get paid. Thanks for that, Niall.

 _Book Ends_ was not a chain store. They got books out of obscure locations. Some came in bulk - the new books. The books on Oprah’s Reading List. Some where donated. Some they had one copy of. Students of the University made four or five copies of their own books, and _Book Ends_ sold them. 

It was small, and usually darker than the outside world. You could still see fairly well, though. A comforting lighting. Homey. The walls were a dark wash wood, and the _orange_ _chairs_. Harry loved the orange chairs. He’d often considered pulling together a covert ninja mission, where he’d break in and steal himself one. He’d had a dream about it, once. There wasn’t a lot of room in the flat, but he was sure he could fit it in his room somewhere. If he’d bother to clean. 

He probably wouldn’t get an orange chair.

"Meg pulled out the inventory… list… things, before she went to ‘Rogers’ to pick up lunch." Harry explained and slid his fingers over the panel to catch the ball and bounce it to the bricks above. "I was transferring the receipts into the computer."

At that, Gary paused and took Harry in. “You sure look like it,” he said with a side smile. “Please. _Please_ , go and fix up Short Stories. When Meg gets back with your food, you can eat - obviously.”

Harry held his finger still and watched the tiny gold ball bounce off the top wall, drop, and fall below his bar. “Right away, boss. I’ll get on that in a jiffy.” He spoke in an abnormally fast pace and shoved his phone into his back pocket, as he slid off the stool in a contradicting sluggish pace. 

Gary stopped pulling books out of the box and fixed Harry with a (friendly yet firm) stare, “You need to stop acting like you’re in the 1940’s.” Harry swerved out from behind the counter and started down Short Stories. “No seriously. You’re really weird!”

~~~

Alphabetically. Genre. Length. Author.

Harry wasn’t actually sure what the protocol was at _Book Ends_. That was probably a problem. Had they taught him that and he just wasn’t listening? Or did this go in the ever growing category of ‘I’m not that fucking stupid, Meg. If you’d told me where we put damaged books, I would of remembered’.

He’d never actually said that, though. Harry liked to think of himself as a lover not a fighter. Despite the fact that, inside his head, he was screaming at everyone.

Well, not Niall.

He’d been sitting there for thirty minutes. First, he’d looked over the section and had seen nothing wrong. Then he’d pulled them all off the shelf and layed them out.

_DingDing_

There were piles of books he’d never thought to read surrounding him, as he sat cross legged on the carpet of the aisle - trying to decide on his own system. A lot of books. _A lot_.

He liked the idea of organizing everything by color. By shades. He could organize the whole store that way - it’d be something to distract him. And it would be pretty. He liked pretty things. It was probably a trait of his that got him into trouble. Harry liked a pretty photo of an old building falling to pieces. He liked pretty, shiny, red hair and gorgeous laughs and all of those things coming up and wrapping their arms around him.

"Genre, and then alphabetically…. I guess."

"Oh yeah, that’s definitely the best way." Harry’s head snapped up, to the figure standing above him.

Black, raven hair. Small un-condescending smirk - just casually content. _Sharp lines_. Gorgeous laugh. Well, he wasn’t actually positive on that one. But, Harry had heard a glimsp of it once after Liam must of told a joke. 

"…Hi."

"Hey," Zayn strolled further down the aisle. "Uhm, I was here to just browse, but it seems you’ve destroyed one of my favorite sections."

Fuck.

Harry attempted to gracefully rock onto the balls of his feet and glide himself out of his seated position, but he realized part-way through (as he started to teeter over) that it couldn’t be done. So, to make up for looking like an idiot, he did his best to appear as if he was just adjusting in his spot.

"A terribly paid book store clerk is.. never at rest," he sighed shakily and Harry could not think of anything more pathetic to say, so he focused his eyes back on the work surrounding him and just stared at the ground. The sun was shining through the front windows, framing the edges of Zayn’s head (around his unusually flat set hair), and darkening him out. It would make an interesting shot. To finally have the figure he’s been wanting in all of the photos he taken recently - and still not being able to make him out.

He liked the idea.

But Harry’s skin started to itch uncomfortably, as he determined that Zayn’s presence wasn’t fading away with the end of their miniscule conversation, but moving closer and sliding down next to him. On the floor. By him on the floor. On the floor, next to him.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched Zayn drag his legs up under one another, shrug his coat and backpack off of his shoulders, and set them to the side. “I’ll take the Thrillers,” he spoke softly and started to reach out with ease and grab all of the correct texts and Harry didn’t really understand what was happening. First off, he had no idea how Zayn could know what was what without reading the synopsis’ on the back. And second, Zayn. Zayn? _Zayn_.

Harry just realized he didn’t know his last name. Which would make sense, because this had been their longest conversation in the weeks Harry had been at _Book Ends_. “…Why are you?” he forced out and faded away, once the the boy next to him shrugged his shoulders.

"Uhmm," the boy started, with a small, amused smile on his face. "You’ve been here awhile and like, I’ve never seen you working."

“ _Heyyy_ , I work,” Harry defended, a bit surprised that he was being attacked so suddenly, by the creature he’d been stalking on a semi worrying level. Not that he was stalking. He was just….

"Oh, no," Zayn  interrupted and caught Harry’s eyes. "I don’t mean that in a bad way… I just mean - you look like… distracted, or… bored? I thought you might want help."

It wasn’t how he expected their first long conversation to go. Although, with how he’d been dealing with his entire life - Harry had assumed that there never would be a significant conversation to speak of. Especially one that didn’t include the amount of money Zayn owed him for his bag of books. 

Harry mumbled something unintelligible and Zayn nodded his head in mock understanding, “Do you want me to leave?”

Did he want him to leave? Did he want Zayn to leave? _Zayn_. To go away?

Not particularly, and he said as much, “No, it’s fine…”

Both boys sat there for awhile sorting through the mess Harry had created. Zayn would grab a book, read the title, and put it in the appropriate title without a second hesitation. Which, was a completely different feel than Harry, who would slowly read the back and (if all else failed) raise the book in Zayn’s direction who pointed to the correct spot. 

Zayn would hum once to himself when he picked up something he’d read prior and enjoyed and let the corner of his lip rise when something new caught his eyes. Harry would watch hazel eyes scan the back, and place the book in a personal pile - to buy before he left.

It was strange, to so suddenly be thrust into time with the person Harry had been watching hang around the store and sit in the orange chairs and listen to Liam and look like he looked.

He smelled nice, which was a creepy observation that Harry wished he hadn’t of had.

"I like your jumpers," Zayn spoke up so suddenly that Harry kicked over his final pile that he had to put up on the shelves.

”..I’m sorry?” Harry reached over to try and set it straight. Spazz.

"You’re always wearing a different one, from uhm from what I’ve seen. With weird patterns.."

He seemed to draw back, then - unsure of himself. Harry watched as Zayn drew his eyebrows in toward the center of his face and set his lips in a straight line. Harry wasn’t sure where or why the subject of his clothing had been brought up, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay on it long. Zayn was stylish and clean and crisp - even if he didn’t always look it. A simple t-shirt and a denim jacket that looked casually thrown together, had to be thought out and Downy Fresh. Harry was the opposite. He used to be crazy about his laundry schedule, but looking down - he’d been wearing the same pair of jeans for two weeks. And there was no way the creature next to him had never seen the jumper he was wearing. Couldn’t remember the last time that was washed. In fact, he’d come home the a few days prior with a basket of fresh shirts and a note on top that said ‘This won’t happen again, ya little shite. Do some laundry! - N’ “I don’t know… I like to… be warm.”

Zayn’s eyes slid over and his face relaxed. There was a small laugh on his lips and a sudden twinkle in his eye. “You’re like a Curly Bill Cosby.”

"I’ve got your sandwich!" the front door dinged and Meg’s voiced hollered out. Zayn looked away from Harry and back to the books, but he didn’t continue looking through them. "Harry! Hurry that ass-" she stuck her head around the corner and froze once she spotted Zayn on the ground. "Oh hey, babe. Long time no see!"

Zayn grabbed his last books and placed them on the shelf, “You saw me three days ago.”

"I _guess_ ,” Meg cooed and smiled low. “But I want to see something else.” 

Harry watched Zayn’s face shut down slightly, but he was still open enough to the conversation. It seemed like one they had had before. “Yeah, I _know_ you do,” Zayn nodded and shook his head seemingly at the same time.

Harry watched the exchange and then shoved away the final books. Meg had known Zayn for who knows how long. She’d probably been trying to get with Zayn for seemingly the same amount of time. If she couldn’t succeed in that…. 

"I should get back to the counter," Harry groaned out, as he pulled himself to his feet - his back aching from being hunched over. "There are other people here… and I’m starved, so…"

He started forward and faltered, as Zayn jumped from his spot, “Oh yeah. Yeah alright.”

Meg handed off the bags to Harry and stepped closer to the tattooed boy, “So, when are we going to spend some time together, Zaynie?”

~~~

"Autobiographies are in the back left, corner. If you need anything else, we’ve got people walking around."

Harry dragged the cardboard box across the surface of the counter and started to pull books out one by one. Anything in a sellable condition in one pile. Anything currently in a state of peril in another. And no - he did not crane his neck to the right and try to look down Short Stories. He didn’t care about the conversation happening there. Harry Styles was stronger than that.

The next time he looked up, though, Zayn was making his way out of the isle, books in hand and up to the counter. “You’re out of her clutches,” Harry teased, as best he could. But then he realized that he hadn’t tried to properly tease anyone in a really long time and he was pretty awful at it.

But Zayn laughed.

An actual laugh.

And Harry was right - it was gorgeous. Just like the rest of him.

Fuck.

To escape his thoughts, Harry immediately grabbed for the books and started ringing them up. It always surprised him how many Zayn got at one time. How quick he read them. Harry could barely get through one - although he usually only read substantial books when he was going to be tested on them. But Zayn. _Zayn_. He’d never seen somebody want to spend so much time in a bookstore, without getting paid for being there. That could of just something about his friends, though.

Zayn was fidgeting in his own way - subtle and with intent of hiding it - and Liam was pushing through the front door and over to his side. He didn’t say anything - which was strange for him. He just stood there looking between FidgetingZayn and Harry. “Wha-” Zayn started and stopped when Liam fixed him with a look and Harry rang out his total. “Like uhm, our friend is playing in a near-bye cafe,” Zayn started, as he struggled to tug his wallet out. “ _The Club_. He sings and plays guitar and all that.” Liam balanced out his weight onto his back foot. “His name is Niall… Liam reckons he’ll be famous. Oh It’s tonight, by the way.”

Harry’s interest peaked (although it was already pretty high, because Zayn talking was Zayn talking) and pulled out a bag and started to place the books in, “I know.”

But, Zayn continued on without hearing him - and Liam smiled at Harry over Zayn’s shoulder. “We thought you could go - and, like, hang out. It’ll be pretty cool.”

Handing the bag over the counter and grabbing Zayn’s money in exchange - Harry spoke again and louder, “I’m going to that anyway… Niall’s my best friend, so…”

He’d actually forgotten about the show - and somewhere in the back of his head - Harry felt like the worst friend ever. Music meant a lot to Niall, and he’d known about the show longer than anybody else. What songs he was going to play. If he should tell that joke he’d made up in between the third and fourth song. But Harry had forgotten - despite how much Niall put up with him and his one eighty’d personality.

"Oh? Well," Zayn started to back away from the counter. "Great… Yeah. See you there? Okay."

And Harry didn’t know what to do. Seeing Zayn not in the store. Outside. The real-world, where he didn’t smell paper at every turn. It seemed like it would be a lot to deal with, especially because BookEndZayn was already a lot to take in. What did he look like in natural light? The same?

He watched them walking towards the door and heard Liam utter a hushed, “So, how did this go?” and some of Zayn’s returning response of, “I’m — _fucking_ —- disaster.”

Harry didn’t know what any of that meant. 

When the door slid closed and they started walking down the street, Harry raised his camera and pointed it in the direction on Short Stories.

And clicked.

~~~

Niall was in school for music. Guitar classes. Singing classes. Music history (which was actually an odd one). And there was a reason. 

"You’re going to be great, Nialler, and you know it," Harry scoffed from his spot sitting on the edge of the stage. He’d come early for Niall’s set, with Niall, so that he could hang out on the side and feel cool even if he didn’t feel cool.

"Ya, well. Me throat’s been a bit of a scratch," Niall lied whilst running a hand over the stretch of his throat. He always got a weird batch of nerves before a performance, which was odd, because he wasn’t actually nervous. He liked people. He liked being in front of people. He liked singing and he was good at it. Great.

Harry usually found the best way to stifle the fire was to talk about different things, “I’m supposed to sit with your friend tonight… Liam?”

"Ya’ve met him? He’s cool, right?"

Harry let his fingers prick at the strings of Niall’s finely tuned guitar, “…I haven’t talked to him much… Zayn, either.”

"Dey go to da book store a lot, don’t dey!" Niall exclaimed, looking genuinely pleased. "I should’a known ya’d meet dem. But, yeah. Zayn’s a quiet guy. Fun, d’ough - when you open him up."

He stopped talking, then, and watched Niall start to prepare to go onstage. There were a lot of people out front. _The Club_ was one of the spots around town that students congregated at. They liked the drinks. They liked the music. The mediocre opening acts that built up for true talents, like Niall Horan.

~~~

He pushed through the backstage door and out into the main room. People. Everywhere.

Harry weaved his way through - searching - until he spotted the right faces. “Harry!!” Liam called over the chatter of the bar and waved his hands for him to come over. As he pushed closer, the tall boy threw an arm around the width of his shoulders and pulled him down to the table. “How’s our boy?! Ready to go?”

Harry wasn’t sure he wanted Liam’s arm to rest around him as long as it was. But, he was friendly enough - and seemed genuinely nice. So, he pushed aside the thoughts and started to nod.

"He’s pretending to be nervous!" Harry called back over the noise. It had been awhile since he hung out outside his flat and he was just realizing how he’d forgotten that other people spoke. The book store was quiet and rare. In the real world, they yelled at each other in glee and didn’t hold back. Other people hadn’t shut down at the beginning of term. He was weird. And odd man out.

"Pretending to be nervous?" the voice next to Liam sounded - and Harry knew who it was before Liam extracted his arm and lent back into the seat. Zayn had changed into a darker set of clothes. He had on a simple black t-shirt on and it was a nice color against his skin.

Harry looked over at the other people at their table. A few girls he’d never seen before and a few friends of Niall’s, who used to be friends of Harry’s. Jack Temple. Nathan Jones, ect. ect. Perfect. Just perfect. They weren’t looking at him, but Zayn was. “Yeah… he does that a lot.”

He sat back in the booth and willed himself away. He’d been mentally practicing it for weeks - disappearing without disappearing. A waitress came over to take their drink orders and two pitchers were ordered for the table. The atmosphere was alright, despite the fact that he was surrounded by people he didn’t want to talk to. People who didn’t want to talk to him. And certain people he couldn’t have a conversation with that didn’t make him seem like a moron. Or take a photograph of. Harry was feeling lighter than normal though, even though he’d not taken a drink yet.

Raising his camera up to his eye - Harry scanned the room. A group of girls leaning over their table to whisper to each other. _Click_. The lights gliding across the ceiling and the shadows that were created from the efforts. _Click_. The stage, empty except for a techie setting up for Niall. The cords he was moving tangled in his arms. _Click_. And then.

Mark James. 

And Louis Tomlinson.

Holding _hands_.

And walking towards the table he was currently sitting at. He stilled rigid and sank inward all at the same time.

"Hey Jack!" Mark greeted with a warm smile, just as Harry started to pull the camera from his face. He could feel his chest constricting. There were burning flames building in the base of his throat. Mark pulled away from his one armed hug to turn towards the rest of the table. Where he started to greet everyone he knew.

Harry was shutting down. In the bad way. He could feel it.

His eyes scanned Mark’s face, down his arm, and to the hand clasped tightly in another. Louis’ hand. They were together. They’d actually started dating. Real dating. Public dating.

Mark started to introduce himself to Zayn and Liam - whom he did not know, apparently. He introduced himself and his boyfriend Louis. Louis his boyfriend.

He couldn’t breathe and he noted a slight sting of moisture in the back of his eyes. Harry refused to let that be seen.

"Harry, it’s good to see you," Mark spoke to him then - and Harry started unnaturally. He wasn’t expecting to be addressed. The large lump in his throat was threatening, so Harry just crooked the corner of his lip and did his best SmileNodThing - and hoped for the best. But, all that did was have Mark’s body tilt towards him and give him a hug. 

Harry didn’t move into it.

"I’m surprised to see you here," Mark continued and gave Harry a once over. "Are you alone? Probably - No! It’s completely fine. I mean," he paused and gave a smile Harry used to think was charming. Wide. Toothy. Smirked up on the left hand corner. It seemed sleazy now. And he wanted to cry. "Some people just don’t bounce back from… unfortunate circumstances, as quick as others."

Unfortunate circumstances.

 _Unfortunate_ circumstances.

Mark having a good time over Louis’ bent over body… was _unfortunate circumstances_.

He really wanted to cry.

Zayn was watching the exchange, but his focus was placed more securely on Harry’s face. “You should sit down,” he broke in and directed Mark and Louis to a seat far away. “Niall’s coming on.”

The lights in the front room dimmed enough that Harry felt comfortable letting his face go for a few seconds. He wasn’t supposed to ever see Mark again - and if he did, Mark was supposed to be graveling and sorry. Not still with the thing that tore them apart.

Niall adjusted on his stool and started saying something charming that had the audience hollering out and the girls swooning at his feet. The cushion of the bench dipped and from the corner of his eyes, he could see Liam crawling over Zayn’s body and pushing the former in his spot next to Harry. Zayn didn’t say anything, but he did distribute his attention between the confident blonde on stage and the broken brunette beside him.

~~~

He was living in some horrific eighties sitcom, that just wasn’t funny. It was painful. It hurt to watch.

Their group - save Harry - grabbed for Niall’s shoulders and tugged him into an oddly angled group hug. Spotting Mark and Louis there, he threw a look over his shoulder that said ‘It wasn’t me’ and Harry never thought it was. There were excitedly loud chants and cheers about what a fantastic job he had done, and he did. Nobody had expected any different.

"So what are we doing?" Liam smiled and gestured towards the man of the hour. "Anything you want, right? Stay here and drink? Go somewhere else and drink?! Eat and drink? What do you want, Niall?"

Harry’s friend smiled happily - gratefully - and punched Liam in the shoulder, “Ya can’t even hold the pints, ya shite!” Louis laughed his laugh - one Harry used to find somewhat fun and infectious, but now felt it landed more like an _flesh eating_ infection. A laugh meant to burn his ears and soul off in a nasty, gooey mess. Not nice. Bad.

Niall’s wary side glance towards Louis and controlled look of disgust made Harry feel slightly (just slightly) better. Niall was always on his side. “Yeah, let’s head out ta Craig’s. He’s open later than most of d’ese places.”

"Alrighty!" Mark spoke up and reached out a hand to clap Harry twice on the back. He did everything he could to not visibly flinch. Why was he here? Why was he touching him? Why did he think anybody wanted him around? "Let’s go."

He and Niall were the only ones with anything against Mark, though. Niall had liked Mark, because Harry did - and when that was no longer a factor, he cut that friendship off.

Louis held out his arms, as Mark made his was over - and he wrapped him in a hug and handed him his coat.

He looked happy. Mark. With Louis Tomlinson.

God Harry was going to throw up if he had to spend another second with these people. He shouldn’t have to be around Mark, unless the former was there asking for forgiveness. Which, if the kiss he was planting on Louis’ cheek said anything….. wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

Harry pulled himself out of his seat and went up behind Niall. “I think I’m…. I’m just going to head back,” he said into his friends ear and gave him a half back hug.

Niall looked to Mark once more, and turned around to face his friend. His tone was understanding, “Are ya sure?”

"Yes, I _need_ to… get out of here. You were great, by the way.” Niall grinned. “See you later,” Harry snatched his coat out of the booth and shrugged it over his shoulders. The air in the pub (which was called _The Club_ and that was weird) was heavy and dense. His eyes were stinging uncomfortably and a headache was forming that shouldn’t be present. Weaving in and out of all of the people, Harry’s eyes finally caught sight of the door.

~~~

There were rare times Harry loved London weather and rare times he hated it.

Bursting through the doors of an over populated pub filled with Red Haired Cretans - Harry loved London weather. The cold air smack him in the face - he stilled and a glance at the sky had him begging for rain. 

It would fit his mood.

The wooden doors behind him pushed open and fell closed. There was silence, as Harry pulled himself together for the walk home. There was a click of a lighter and a sudden smell of cigarette smoke. “I’ve got a class earlier tomorrow,” a familiar voice sounded, which had Harry turning and cursing his red lined eyes. “Well, it’s at two,” Zayn inhaled around the butt.

That was a photo.

The cigarette pulled from the pair of lips and Zayn sent the smoke into the sky, “Thought I’d walk with you, like, if that’s cool with you?”

"I - yeah - okay," Harry didn’t really understand what was happening. It didn’t really matter that Zayn’s face could of been ripped from a marble sculpture. He wasn’t in the mood to sit in agony over his lack of photographic evidence of the fact that Zayn’s face could of been ripped from a marble sculpture. He was upset and he wanted to be upset. The very idea that he’d have to pull himself together, once more, made him want to fall straight to the ground and stay there long past his knees beginning to ache on the concrete.

He didn’t do that.

Instead, Harry mentally willed away his bad thoughts (at least tried his very best to) and started walking in the direction of his flat.

It wasn’t a far trip, which was something to be grateful for. And it was quiet, which was something else.

The sky was dark, but the street lamps guided the way in familiar patterns. _DarkLightDarkLight_. The boy next to him kept a pregnant silence, as he inhaled and exhaled the smoke in his lungs and watched Harry from the corners of his eyes. And Harry shoved his fists inside his jean pockets to steady himself.

Mark.

All the night had shown Harry, was that he hadn’t been working with his issues - he’d been quiet and withdrawn. It didn’t seem like it, now. But, Harry used to be a life in a room. People had liked to talk to him and he had liked talking to people.

"I’ve been trying to figure you out for awhile, now," Zayn spoke through the fog taken residency in Harry’s mind. He could hear him, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to break away from his thoughts and feel good about himself again. The pain in his chest, though… it didn’t seem possible. "I thought you were quiet… I’m quiet, I guess," Zayn continued and watched Harry turn down another street. He followed, despite the fact that he lived the opposite direction. "Like, I don’t know."

Harry pulled himself out of his own mind to look over at Zayn, who looked the same way he looked whenever he was trying to get out of the store. “I wouldn’t say I’m quiet,” he mumbled back and veered right, up the walkway to the decent sized white building and pulled out his keys.

"But then," Zayn followed Harry’s lead up the walkway and the few steps to the door. He sucked in one last time, dropped the butt to the ground and ground it out with the toe of his boot. "I decided that you were sad."

The key caught a few times on it’s journey towards the door, but Harry succeeded eventually and unlocked the front. He paused, though, before making his way inside to turn towards the boy behind him. What did he want? Why didn’t he telepathically understand that Harry wanted to sleep through the rest of his life?

"You’re, like… profoundly sad," Zayn’s eyes turned from his and stared off down the street. "It’s beautiful in a way."

Beautiful. It’s beautiful.

Harry thought it was the exact opposite. It was suffocating.

He pushed his way through the door and could vaguely feel Zayn’s presence following behind him. A journey up the outside stairwell led him to his and Niall’s flat and he let himself inside there, as well.

AtHisHomeZayn - Not something he’d ever thought he’d see.

Harry shrugged his coat off of his shoulders and threw it over the arm of the couch and turned to the boy standing just in front of the door. “I… was going to sleep,” Harry informed to Zayn who nodded, ran a hand through his hair, and started inwards. Harry watched him remove his coat and walk down the hallway.

Nothing currently happening seemed very in character. He and Zayn had barely spoken and now the former was casually observing his home. “This must be your room,” he heard spoken fairly quietly from down the hall. Moving slowly, he followed the sound and stopped in the doorway. Harry watched Zayn’s eyes trail over the pictures on the wall. “I’ve been wondering what you take pictures of.”

Harry stayed quiet. He didn’t take pictures of anything. He was terrible. And oh my god he was going to fail.

"You’re allowed to be sad," Zayn’s fingers ran over a picture of Harry and Mark during the middle of their relationship. Happy. They looked happy. "You’ve _uhm_ been trying not to cry for a few hours… Don’t worry it wasn’t noticeable. But it does make it worse… trying to hold back.”

It was like having sudden permission to break down, and a few tears started to roll down his face. This was a terrible day.

"You should take these down," Zayn continued walking around the span of the room. He casually stepped over a pile of dirty clothes, not bothering to look down at it. "I can guess what happened," another tear fell. "but, these are memories. Nostalgia…. You see these and want to go back to before whatever happened, happened…. ‘The pain from old wounds’."

"You should probably head home," Harry kicked his shoes off and climbed into his bed. His fingers reached out for his blanket and he pulled it up around his shoulders. It was warm and familiar and he was tired. Instead of footsteps fading away, the other side of his bed dipped.

"You’re a great story," Zayn’s voice softened more, if that was even possible. "You’re in the Classics…. He’s a bit of a dick, huh?"

Mashing his face further into his pillow, Harry willed himself to not gasp loudly for air. If he let that go - he’d be set to sob. And he couldn’t let that happen. But it did. Uncontrollably, Harry sucked in a large breath and let it go - tears falling freely from his eyes and splashing against the pillows surface. A body sank lower and a pair of arms wrapped around him, holding him through it. “Profoundly sad.”

He couldn’t remember when he fell asleep.

~~~

When Harry woke up the next day, his head ached and his face felt sticky and sad. Rolling onto his back, he flicked his head to the right and was met with rumpled sheets. _Zayn_.

He wouldn’t be surprised if he never showed up to the book store again. Avoided it like the plague. His alarm showed that he had an hour to get to a class that was a half hour away.

It didn’t matter.

Pretending he was already late, Harry sank himself deeper into the mattress and shoved tousled curls under his pillow, but pulled his head out quickly once more and threw an arm over the edge of his bed. His finger tips made contact with what he wanted and grabbed for it.

Harry held the camera in his hands and sighed pathetically over his life. Everything was a disaster.

He raised the camera to his eye, focused it on the rumpled sheets next to him, and took another picture.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn Malik was an art exhibit waiting to happen.

"These are really good pictures, Caitlin. The lines are intriguing. I’m not quiet sure what they are, but at the same time, I’m not confused."

Harry sat at his work desk thumbing through the prints that he’d processed, as Professor Feyne walked from student to student - desk to desk - going over the work they had done.

He’d gone through and printed everything in black and white. There was something classic about it - and if his hazy memory of an embarrassing night rang true, he was “in the Classics”. Empty words for a blubbering boy, is how he saw it.

"Harry," Feyne turned his attention on him and strode over with his hands clasped behind his back. "How have you been doing? How are your Three S’s?"

How _were_ his Three S’s? 

Subject. It was something simple, he supposed. Style. Everybody had their own. Story. That was the more complicated one. “… Well, I think I started something unintentionally, but…”

"Yeah? Well, let me look, shall we?" Feyne slid in closer to his work and Harry moved over, so his teacher could see better. Feyne’s eyes and hands worked together to sort over the papers in front of him. He scanned over Harry’s photos in the order he had been sorting them.

Harry watched his Professor’s eyes search and brows scrunch together, as he took in the images sorted out on the table in front of him. “There’s something sad about them,” Feyne hummed and flipped to the next photo. 

It had been an unusually cold day, and that was saying a lot in London. And there was quite a bit of a thick fog outside. Looking out the window, Harry couldn’t see across the street to the coffee shop he sometimes stopped in. Harry had been sat behind the counter picking at a chicken salad Meg had gotten him for lunch and reading (actually reading) a book BookEndsZayn had recommended offhandedly a week prior - when the pair of them pushed through the door. 

As always, Harry did his best to pretend he didn’t feel the air change.                                              

Liam was as ‘Liam’, as usual - walking in with a smile and blowing into his hands in an attempt to warm himself up. Zayn had wandered off immediately and Liam waved over at Harry, despite their lack of conversation - and plopped himself into one of the orange chairs in the front. When Harry pulled his thoughts back towards the counter, Zayn was already in front of him placing a book down (because, _of course_ he knew exactly what he wanted) and pulling out the appropriate amount of money. He hadn’t said much at the time. Just vaguely mentioned that Harry was reading the book, before becoming silent and _watching_ him ring up.

Harry went back to his salad after he’d handed Zayn the bag. But, when he said ‘went back’, what he actually meant was that he subconsciously stopped actively eating and tried not to watch the two in the corner.

Feyne was looking at The Ashtray. The Ashtray on the coffee table next to the orange chairs that Zayn had used the first time Harry had ever seen him place a cigarette between his lips. The first time Harry had ever thought to want a picture of his lips alone. Which was surprising and completely changed him, because it was a nice set.

Liam lounged and worked on… whatever homework he had. Because, it had been at that moment that Harry remembered he knew nothing about either of them. Other than the fact that Liam was nice and friendly (although he did push Zayn towards the counter a lot, so Harry supposed he was also a bit aggressive) and Zayn was silent and… well, fit. But that had been it. That’s all he knew. And while Feyne looked at the picture - Harry realized that still didn’t know anything. They were both friends with Niall. That’s all he had.

The Ashtray that held The Cigarette butt, that Zayn had left behind when they eventually re-braved the weather.

Another empty photo. 

But, that was just the thing. It was starting to feel intentional. It was starting to make sense to him, if not anyone else. Something he could turn it for a grade. But honestly, nothing he really wanted to. 

Feyne flipped to another photo and another and another. “I _am_ confused with yours,” he continued, although the corner of his mouth was upturned. “But it’s not a bad confusing. You have a direction that I don’t understand - it’s not… clear, but it’s _there_.”

Harry ran the nail of his thumb across the wood of his table and hummed quietly in response.

"You remember that the best projects are going to be displayed? A real art show, which is something few people get. Especially beginners."

"… Yeah, I remember that lecture."

Feyne paused to glance at him before continuing, “It wasn’t a lecture, Styles. It was a prize.”

Looking at his prints and closing his eyes for a moment, Harry thought back to and remembered his current in-capabilities to take the photo he really wanted. It was horrible and pretty difficult to to deal with. He pulled his eyes open to watch his pages go by. Short Stories. A book left at Harry’s register that Zayn decided to buy another time. A discarded pen Zayn had asked to borrow, once, when he had wanted to quickly write a thought down. And Harry couldn’t even _begin_ to describe _how_ badly he wanted to know what that was for. “I don’t want this to be a prize,” was all he said.

Feyne stilled his hands and turned fully towards his student, “Everyone else would kill for it… I hope you’re at least trying.”

Of course he was trying. Harry didn’t come from a rich family. His mum and step dad did their best to pay for his school and even in the beginning of his… fucking meltdown (Niall’s words), he still went to class and tried his best to pay attention to what his teachers were talking about. What his assignments were. Tried.

"This…" He thought more of Zayn, then. And how, before he had seen Mark and Louis Fucking Tomlinson, his focus and been pulled to the raven haired boy. The tattooed boy. The quiet boy. The smoking boy. And all other obvious, but alluring, observations he could think of. He was still upset and he still thought about how he hadn’t been good enough to keep somebody he loved so much. He still thought about how Mark… broke his heart. That’s what he did. He broke his heart and he didn’t even care. But a piece of his attention had been drawn away. By this Creature. Who would never speak to him again. After he made a huge fool of himself. And hadn’t shown up at _Book Ends_ in a week. That Creature. “It’s not just a school project…” Feyne’s eyes held something Harry had never seen in them.

It was something else.

~~~

"Ya know, me friend’s been ask’n a lot about ya," Niall grabbed a bag of crisps and tossed it into the hand basket Harry was carrying for them. He nodded noncommittally and let his eyes run over the various cans on the other side, looking for the right brand of corn. He was making tacos for dinner, later - which didn’t normally require corn, but Harry liked to put it in there. In fact, he had been the one to suggest cooking in that night and Niall almost had an aneurysm over Harry wanting to do something he used to do all the time. "Ya hear me?"

"…Yeah," Harry found the corn and got five cans, so he could make some at random times. "Go ahead, I’m listening."

Niall smiled his largest smile - the one that said he had a good story to tell, even if it wasn’t actually a good story. And oh my god. He was making Niall happy and that was making him sick. Too many expectations. But, HappyNiall was the best Niall, so…

Harry fixed him with a look and they had been friends long enough for Niall to chuckle, nod, and turn into another aisle. “It was Liam, by da way.”

"What was?" Harry followed and grabbed a seasoning packet.

"Me friend dat was ask’n about ya. And ya weren’t list’nen."

"Yes, I _wasss_.” The worst thoughts started their way through the spaces of Harry’s mind. Niall was friends with Liam, which Harry had learned the other night. And Liam was friends with Zayn. And Zayn hadn’t come to the book store in a week. What could he possibly want to know? There was a fairly good chance, Harry supposed, that Liam was asking on the behalf of Zayn, if Harry could just find a new job, so that his friend wouldn’t have to see him anymore. It was only as things progressed in his mind about how horrifically he had embarrassed himself and what that could mean that he realized that Niall was talking.

"He’s been ask’n about ya for a really long time, actually."

"… Like what?"

"It was simple at first, like ‘Did I know ya?’ and stuff like dat. It got a bit more interest’n later."

"… Like _what_?”

Niall pushed forward down the freezer section of Tesco, “It’s not important.” And just like that he stopped talking and instead busied himself with finding the rum ice cream which was often pushed towards the back. Harry wasn’t one to push - he’d never been that way, even before things went awry. People would talk about what they wanted to talk about.

It was only when they were checking out and walking out the front door back into the wet air that Niall smirked. “It had to do with someone. Zayn Malik.”

~~~

Malik. That was Zayn’s last name. How had he never learnt that before? BookEndZayn - OutsideZayn - AtHisHouseZayn.

Zayn Malik. It completely suited his features. He looked like a ‘Malik’ - and Harry was, not nearly for the first time, questioning his mental state.

Niall hadn’t told him what Liam was asking about, specifically. And he hadn’t pressed - somewhat stunned by this simple, yet new information about The Creature who avoided _Book Ends_ at all costs. His friend had mentioned, however, that it was exactly what it said. Liam had been asking about him. Harry’s only hint (which Niall was bouncing to give) was that it was one question. Just one. 

Harry adjusted from his spot on his stool and watched the weather outside. London had been doing well on the rain situation, for awhile. There hadn’t been much in the past few weeks and it was _such_ a marvel that BBC News wouldn’t stop talking about and even his mum had called to talk about how happy she was that the skies would be clear for her next charity hike. But, despite such luck, it was back. Falling heavy and rough against the pavement. He only had a few minutes before he was allowed to go outside, at eleven, and brave the walk home. Gary had started to trust him to lock up, so Harry was watching an employee he’d not spoken to much (Colin was his name) go up and down the aisles picking up spare books and sat waiting to leave. Tearing his eyes from the rain, Harry let his head thunk down onto the counter and closed his eyes. Waiting to leave.

_DingDing_

The front door sounded and Harry couldn’t be bothered, so he was grateful when Colin handled the situation - even if he knew it would probably end badly. “We’re closing in _literally_ two minutes,” his bored tone called over to the customer who had pushed in from the rain.

"It’s fine. I’m not here to shop," the voice sounded. The Voice. And Harry was sure he was just imagining things, because Zayn Malik no longer shopped at _Book Ends_. 

"Than What Do You Want?" Colin’s voice hit on every punctuation, as he shoved the last few books into the Sort Box that he and Meg would have to place on the correct shelves the next morning. God a morning shift. A Sunday morning shift. Should be fucking illegal.

Zayn didn’t respond to Colin (And who could blame him? The boy was more unpleasant than Harry was.), but his footsteps echoed in the empty store, as he made his way to Harry’s dead body. He wasn’t actually dead. Obviously. 

Mentally, Harry checked over what he was wearing and how he looked and was it okay to be in-front of somebody who was always so put together? Unwashed jeans. A brown knit jumper that he found under his desk. Nope. Not even close. “Hey, Harry,” Zayn greeted, and when Harry raised his head, ran a hand through soaking hair. Not so put together and still looked better than anyone in the room. Of course… there were only three people there and one of them was clutching a box and glaring in Harry’s direction.

"…Hi," in the span of time he hadn’t seen him, Harry had forgotten how photogenic Zayn’s face was. No he hadn’t, but he did stare unsure if he should start this unexpected conversation by apologizing for crying so much, without explanation. Or had Zayn spent his time away from the store trying to forget it had happened just so he could come back and buy the latest Ernest Hemingway smash? Harry wasn’t that stupid. He knew the man was dead.

"Do you want to, like, hang out?" was what Zayn said instead. He didn’t ask Harry to quit his job - and that was an honest shock. But, he was grateful. Because, Harry had actually gotten used to showing up at the building everyday. Even Meg was alright.

"… I’m sorry?"

"You have a telly, right?" Zayn started to fidget in his special way - that at some point Harry had decided was a mild form of turrets, even if it wasn’t. "We could, like, pick up something to eat and watch X Factor… or something else. There’s got to be more on British television than that."

If it was a joke, which it probably was judging by Zayn’s small laugh, Harry wasn’t in the mindset to process it. “Yes, there is,” he uttered like a moron - still unsure as to why RainSoakedZaynMalik was standing in-front of him after a week.

"Liam’s got Danielle over." Harry didn’t know who Danielle was. "I’m a bit surprised, but, like, they’re always off and on. I don’t _mind_ , so - for Liam - I step out for a bit when she’s there.”

A cardboard box slammed on the corner right in Harry’s eye line, breaking what was actually Harry more than likely freaking Zayn out - and Colin interrupted. “We closed _five_ _minutes_ ago. You talk like a tortoise,” he complained with a sneer. “If I have to wait here any longer for you to talk to friends, I’m gonna be fucking pissed!”

Harry did his best to contain his eye roll and pushed back against the counter. The legs of the stool scratched against the floor and he dragged himself to his feet with a small salute. “Alright… you can go, Colin. I’ll put the box away,” he wrapped his arms around the width of the cardboard and huffed it off the counter. He eyed Colin grabbing for his coat and pulling Harry’s out, as well (which might of been the nicest thing he’d ever down for him) - while he lugged the books into the back room and set it up on a shelf. When he stepped out back out and locked the door, Zayn had Harry’s coat in the crook of his elbow, cell to his ear mumbling about Kung Pao Chicken, and Colin was nowhere to be found.

Harry waited flush against the door for Zayn to put away his phone. Zayn alone in a bookstore. If it wasn’t weird, it would of been completely natural.

"So… we’ll go to yours?" Zayn questioned, putting his phone in his front pocket - his body neutral and calm - and held out Harry’s coat. Nothing about what was happening made any sense, to Harry. Were they friends now, or something? Because that didn’t seem like the natural progression of what had occurred between them, so far. If Zayn was a _normal_ human being, he’d laugh with Liam and whatever other friends he had, about how ridiculous he was. Was that what Zayn had been deciding on, when he disappeared? If Harry’s social dysfunctions were something he wanted to deal with?

Zayn didn’t have to deal with them, honestly. He just had to not be scared if Harry raised a camera in his face.

Harry looked away from the hazel eyes trained on him (Was Zayn even blinking? The freak.) and tried to pull his coat on without it catching awkwardly on his arm. It did anyway. And he wanted to die. “… Okay, if you want,” Harry spoke, before running his fingers over his camera and attempting to shove it into the corners of his coat. It was a tough camera and had survived many a rain, but he didn’t want to put in direct line of fire. “If you want to… head out. I’ve got to lock the door behind me.”

Zayn scanned his face for a few seconds (he was always scanning Harry’s face), before turning around and making his way out the door. Switching the lights off, Harry looked back into the room and thought over all the things he could take a photo of. But, his Subject had already stepped into the rain, so he stopped himself from walking back inside and instead locked the front door.

~~~

When they had slowed their walk to stop at the Chinese Restaurant everyone on campus went to, Harry was happy to make an observation. _Everyone_ saw that Zayn was, well… beautiful. His features were _ridiculous_ , and Harry was _not_ the only one to notice. He hadn’t really thought about it prior to that moment - too focused on his own complications of wanting to photograph his face (and arms and hands and neck). But, it was true. The girl behind the counter - who would always make sure to serve Niall and Harry, before others - was on double time for Zayn. She stuttered attractively and blushed in front of him, while she loaded away the fried rice he’d ordered - and tried her best to flirt under the intimidating conditions. And the best part of it all, was that Zayn didn’t seem to _notice_ the effect he had on her, _or_ the table of girls in the corner who were whispering and looking over at him. 

Harry watched Zayn talk to the girl at the counter, from the corner of the room he had chosen to wait in. He couldn’t help it. It was just fascinating how everyone could see how fit Zayn was. _Everyone_. There was probably a barista somewhere who took Zayn’s coffee (or tea? God Harry knew nothing about this person) order and thought no one else had ever seen this person before. And Harry felt uncomfortable all over again. Zayn was a quiet person - he had said so himself. But, there he was carrying on a conversation so calmly, which he more than likely did with everyone. Recommending a book, maybe.

Maybe Zayn Malik collected people. Maybe he was a psycho serial killer who collected depressed Uni students and Harry just happened to be next on the list. With everything else that had gone wrong in his life that semester - it would be his luck.

But, he supposed, unlikely.

"Thanks El," Zayn’s voice broke Harry’s train of thought. Zayn was clasping at the brown paper bags, which were tied up in another set of plastic bags to help with the rain (Harry had heard the part of the conversation where Zayn mentioned he was walking). He had a small smile on his face, which suggested he knew the girl a bit better than Harry thought. Maybe they had dated? It was definitely possible.

"You’re welcome, babe," she smiled shyly (but familiarly) and used a set of manicured fingers to brush a strand of hair behind her right ear. "You are coming, right?"

Harry watched Zayn take a step back in Harry’s direction. Perhaps a SubconsiousZayn letting him know he was almost ready to leave. “Yeah, Danielle told Liam about it and, like, Liam told me. Ya know?”

"I _do_ know. You’re a _homebody_ who sits and writes stories that you won’t let any of us actually read.”

"Yeah, well.." Zayn looked back to him. Harry ran a hand through his hair. He could feel how much it had flattened out against his skull from the rain - which was still pouring down. And despite the fact that Harry liked to get home as quick as he could after work - Zayn’s conversation was saving him from the unexpected shower. It was also saving him from having to deal with AtHisHomeZayn again. A wild and un-studied beast that Harry still wasn’t equipped to deal with. It was then that he noticed two sets of eyes on him, which had him looking away confused and out the glass store front. He hadn’t prepared properly for this day.

"We’ll talk about it later, yeah?" El wiped at the counter and gestured for the next customer to step forward. "It’ll be fun, you’ll see."

As per usual, Harry no idea what anyone was talking about and the giggling girl table wasn’t helping his mind focus, any. But, Zayn was making his way back to the front of the restaurant - his own wet shoes squeaking against the tile floor. “Sorry about that,” he apologized and pulled the bags closer to his body when Harry went to help. “It’s okay, I’ve got it. Come on.”

Zayn began to push his way back outside, and Harry stilled a moment and risked whipping his camera out of his coat. Seeing Zayn in other world places were rare and un-thought of, so he stopped to take a photo of the brightly light room.

When they were both back out in the rain again, Harry started forward in the path of his home and listened to the rain hit against the pavement. They weren’t far from his flat, now, and he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he shoved them inside his front pockets. He was used to doing things for other people, he supposed.

But next to him, Zayn seemed perfectly fine. Well, as fine as he could be. Neither of them were doing great in the weather and the bags probably weren’t either. The rain increased steadily and Harry could feel the droplets landing on the width of his shoulder blades. It wasn’t quite the same as the last time they’d walked to his flat.

The first time, Harry hadn’t expected Zayn to go up with him - and had wanted to go to sleep. The walk itself, was cloudy and filled with a lot of shaky breaths and bad thoughts. But, this was different. It could of just been the fact that the other boy was blurred from the down pour - which looked like an obscure painting. 

Or the fact that he wasn’t having a mental breakdown.

~~~

He looked like a wet dog and Zayn looked like a model. A fucking _model_. How was that fair?

Harry looked back to Zayn, who was a few steps below him and still refusing his help to carry the food.

His key sat pressed between his fingers, as they climbed the last flight of stairs. His shoes were heavy, as if been swimming in them. Walking up to his door, he unlocked it and made his way inside, where Niall was at the counter (placed in the middle of the faux window between the kitchen and living room) rounding up his wallet and key ring. He turned to say something to Harry when he spotted Zayn walking in behind him. “Oh, hey mate,” he greeted with a wave and an arched eyebrow.

"Hi, Niall. What’s up?," Harry watched Zayn shuffle to hold onto the bags and kick his wet shoes off at the same time. Finally, he excepted Harry’s help, who grabbed the food and placed it on the coffee table long enough to place his own shoes on the mat. Looking down his body, Harry could see and feel the moisture soaking it’s way up the hem of his pants and his jumper was wet under his coat, as well. And Zayn - who was in the same state - looked perfectly fine.

"I’m good - meet’n a couple of friends at da pub.. It’s pour’n out, huh?" He shoved his keys in his back pocket and pulled his coat of a seat and over his shoulders. 

"It really is." Harry did the exact opposite, shoving his soaked through coat off, holding a hand out for Zayn’s, and hanging them up on the crooked hook that Harry and Niall had drilled next to the door when they first moved in. "I might have something clean…. If you want dry clothes?" he walked further into the room - avoiding Niall’s pointed gaze. And honestly, avoiding Zayn’s, as well. He probably didn’t even have anything clean. 

"Ha, yeah that’d be great," Zayn responded and followed him down the hallway. Harry could feel Niall watching them, but he honestly didn’t know what to say. He walked around his room and went to the one basket of clean clothes that he had. There was a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans that were likely to fit well enough, which he handed over. Harry then went to grab the jumper he’d been wearing around the house and a lesser clean pair of jeans from his bed, for himself. And when he turned around to leave the room to change - Zayn was already tugging his wet shirt up over his head. And. Nope. _Nope_. Not what he expected. Skin he hadn’t the mental capacity to think about seeing. And tattoos. More. There were _more_. They were everywhere and his skin looked soft and fuck he was even skinnier than he looked. 

Zayn Malik was an art exhibit waiting to happen.

Backing out, Harry tripped his way down the hall to find Niall still standing there waiting for him with a kitchen towel to dry off his hair. “Are ya alright?” he asked as Harry chucked off his soaked jumper and t-shirt and pulled the somewhat clean one over his head.

"… I’m not sure," Harry pushed down his trousers as quickly as he could and got rid of his wet pants. Niall had seen him naked on more than one occasion, especially considering the fact that he was more likely to sit in his pants, at home, anyway. But Niall was _leaving_ and Zayn was _staying_ and Harry rushed to pull a fresh set on, before the jeans.

"Da last time I saw Zayn here, he was leav’n at four in da morn’n. Which I know is weird, cause once Zayn’s knackered - he’s out for da rest of da night."

Harry accepted the towel from Niall’s outstretched hands and tried to decipher the set expression on his face, “Oh… did he?”

"I’m just say’n! Zayn’s a good lad and it’s, I don’t know, nice dat ya are mak’n new friends."

"The last time Zayn was here-" Harry dipped his head down and layed the towel over top. He used both hands to rub the cloth over his hair - trying to prevent any drops from getting his dry clothes wet. He coughed once into a closed fist after he’d stopped and continued, "I… That look on your face, is _obviously not_ what happened.”

"Yeah, no I believe ya!"

Harry shushed him and looked back to his room, where the door was still closed. He wasn’t sure why Zayn hadn’t come out yet, which was odd considering he’d started to change before Harry had even left the room. “We’re going to watch X Factor and eat some food… some girl-“

"Danielle?"

"-is at his flat?-"

"Yeah, he and Li live ta-gedder."

"So, I think he was just looking for something to do… and I’m by myself…. so obviously I’m available." Harry walked around Niall’s frame into the kitchen to grab a couple of plates and forks - that he brought back to the living room coffee table.

Niall lent against the door frame watching Harry set up, “Are they back ta-gedder?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders and reached into the bags to start pulling the cartons out. When he grabbed the box of sweet and sour chicken, he popped the top and held it out in Niall’s direction who grabbed for one and bit into it. “I don’t know who she is, Niall. I don’t even know who Liam is.”

Or Zayn for that matter. He was going to be murdered.

The former was making his way down the hall, with an outstretched hand that had his finger tips tracing the wall lightly. “It was a good episode ta’night, by da way. Me girl was _insane_ ,” Niall spoke in both of their directions, before weaving his way through their furniture (Which their mums had helped them pick out at the start of the school year. Big Boys with their own flat, and all. A real tear jerk-er.) and stopping at the door. Harry watched him check his text messages - more than likely learning that his ride was there. Niall wasn’t going to walk in the rain if he didn’t have to. “I’ll see ya later, mates,” he said, pulling the door open and pulling it shut behind him.

AtHomeZayn was strange. 

Harry had turned on the TV set to the appropriate channel and handed Zayn a plate, so that he could start in on whatever he wanted to eat. And after asking what he wanted to drink and going to get it - Harry took his place on the couch (scooted far enough away from the other body) and started to watch the show. Quietly. The room was an odd and unfamiliar silence without Niall’s presence, except for the varying tones emitting from the singers on the screen. Harry still didn’t know any of the contestants’ names. But, to have a focus, he pretended that he knew who was who and kept his own eyes trained ahead on the screen and away from Zayn’s continuous sudden glances.

They were an hour into the two hour show and both of their plates sat on the coffee table in-front of them with a few stray pieces of food that had been set aside, before Harry heard Zayn speak again. “Why are you working at the book store?” was what he asked - his eyes squinted ever so slightly and filled with an interest Harry didn’t understand.

His voice was as low as per usual, but even so - the sudden sound surprised Harry, who turned with his brow arched up into his drying curls. “… What do you mean?”

"Like, I was just… wondering."

"Well," Harry looked around his flat for a few seconds - eyes running over the photos hanging along all of the walls. Most Uni students didn’t have a lot of pictures hanging about (posters maybe), but taking photos was what Harry did for fun and hopefully what he did for a living, as well. They had pretty good furniture and actual dishes and pans. His step dad had bought their television for them, after his real dad fell flat on his promise to do so… It was definitely one of the nicer flats along that particular Row. And neither his nor Niall’s family had a lot of money to spend. "Niall can’t pay the rent on this place himself… even with our parents help," he decided - his eyes landed on a picture frame that held a photo of his mum and Maura dropping him and Niall off at Primary School, and he smiled a bit.

Zayn followed his gaze and looked at a few of the other photos, before looking back. “You have _dimples_ ,” he observed and Harry let his smile fall. What? What about them? What was going on? 

"…Yes I do."

Harry heard Zayn’s huff of breath, which was more than likely a small laugh. Zayn did those a lot. Laughs that weren’t laughs, but were. They usually had Harry wishing that he could photograph the sound. 

 _Mark_ laughed a lot. 

Harry had hundreds of pictures of their three years together - mouth slacked open and eyes clenched shut… they hurt to look at. Mark being happy around him. But despite all of that, Harry hadn’t ever thought to want the sound, because he got to hear it all of the time. It wasn’t rare or special. Well it _was_ special, because it was Mark, but the laugh itself didn’t seem original. It was happy and loud and infectious… But Zayn’s was different, although Harry hadn’t heard his full one. Maybe this was it. It didn’t necessarily make you want to laugh, too. But, it felt personal. “I’ve just _uhm_ , like, I’ve not seen you smile, before.”

"Oh.."

"That’s sort-of why I’m asking. You know? Because for a long while there, like, you didn’t seem to want to be at _Book Ends_ …”

"There was…. another reason, but it’s not important." It was very important. It was basically the loss of his entire personality, because somewhere along the line a switch was flicked and… Harry rose suddenly from his place on the couch and grabbed for the empty plates to take with him into the kitchen. He walked through the archway and headed towards the sink, where he turned on the spout and got the soap off the ledge. He hadn’t planned to wash the dishes right away, but being around Zayn was overpowering - suffocating in an odd way. He didn’t think it was intentional, but it was there.

Harry could feel Zayn pulling himself off of the couch and coming to lean in the doorway, before he heard him. That happened a lot with Zayn. For the past few weeks, Harry would be sitting at the counter in _Book Ends_ and have a _feeling_ that The Creature would show up that day - and yet he’d still been surprised every time he walked through the door.

"No one falls in love with the books where nothing goes wrong for the main character…. No one remembers them."

Dermott’s voice carried through the flat and Harry suddenly just wanted to go to sleep. But Zayn was over and even though they had been fairly silent that night, apart from the few ‘That was really good’ and ‘Why is there even an Over’s category?’ - it wasn’t what Harry would consider a bad time.

"You know," Zayn walked further into the kitchen and started to pick up random rolls of film that Harry had placed in a bowl on the counter. "I’ve been curious about what you take pictures of for _weeks_. Is that what you go to school for?”

And holy shit, they were going to have a conversation. This person that Harry had been mildly stalking for two months. This person he just wanted to take fucking photo of without looking like said stalker. This person he knew _absolutely nothing_ about. Seriously, how old was Zayn, even? What was his life like? How did he have so much money to spend at the store? This person was asking about him. Harry. As if it actually interested him to know what Harry paid too much money to learn about at this school. But then again, from what very little he had gathered about Zayn Malik - he liked learning about new things and old things and things that didn’t exist in this world. He had too, with how much he read and how many books he bought on a weekly basis. Harry had decided that Zayn liked trying to figure people out, because he _couldn’t_ just like observing Harry. And El said he wrote. That was another thing he’d learned. What did he write? “I’m here for photography… and I take some graphics courses and art classes…”

"That’s pretty cool."

Harry switched the water to a warmer temperature so that he could start soaking the plates. “I have… I have a midterm project that I’ve been trying to figure out,” he spoke, whilst pulling a new sponge out from under the sink and avoiding Zayn’s gaze. “That’s been what I’ve been taking photos of for the last few weeks.”

Zayn dropped the rolls of film back into the bowl and walked up towards some empty counter space and pulled himself up to sit on the edge. “What sort-of photographer do you want to be?”

"We’ve done a lot of different types of projects, since I got here," began Harry’s answer. He was comfortable speaking about his work. Even if he obviously couldn’t disclose his midterm, because how embarrassing would that be? "… Beginners don’t get a lot of chance for art shows - it’s hard to get a space."

"Right."

"But, throwing together a show is always good - it feels artistic. But, I’ve also done some photo shoots for some of my… friends in the drama department. I like the idea of that, too."

Zayn tilted his head to the left, watching Harry scrub the plates down, and let his lips curl up. “You’ll eventually get to take the album cover for Niall’s Platinum selling CD.”

Harry laughed, then. A real and familiar laugh, where his head tilted back and his jaw dropped open. It almost hurt to go so long without that - and nothing was even _funny_ , which Harry thought made it all the funnier. He let a dry hand fly up and cover his mouth, before looking over to Zayn who’s eyes were widened and happy. “I can _imagine_ that photo shoot,” a few small chuckles continued to push their way out of Harry’s throat. “I’m not sure I want to be involved in that.”

"But you will! Even if Niall’s a menace."

Harry nodded slowly, placed the plates in the drying rack, and settled into the growing silence. He and Zayn _didn’t_ speak more than they did, but this one wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as some of the other times has been. There was still something off about it, because Zayn’s presence always set him on edge. But, it was alright for the moment. He could feel eyes on him once more, so he looked back over to Zayn softly swinging his legs and (what looked like) trying to say something out loud, but not. 

All of the weeks Harry had watched Zayn walk up and down the aisles and pour over books Harry didn’t understand - he hadn’t realized just how small the boy was. He had to be younger than Harry - and possibly a year earlier in school. For some reason, it hadn’t been a noticeable feature. When they were standing next to each other, Zayn was only a few inches shorter than him. But, sitting there (in his kitchen) in his clothes - it was _exceptionably_  noticeable. They were baggy. The seams of the shirt Harry had let him borrow hung low off of his shoulders and the neck line dipped low enough to see the words written across his collarbones. He looked good.

Another photo.

"-to seem insensitive," Harry caught the tail end of the sentence Zayn was forcing out. "But, the people who don’t try to move on - don’t. You have a lot of cute pictures hung up in your room. Nialler looks like a pissed moron in a lot of them," Zayn huffed a small laugh. "But that’s just part of that Irish Charm."

Harry watched Zayn run a hand through his flat hair and sigh. “I could help you take some down, if you want? I’ve… been broken up with someone before. I had still wanted them back, but I’ve read enough to know that that can kill you…. Liam helped me box away a lot of their stuff.” Zayn trained his eyes on Harry’s, trying his best to show that he was genuinely trying to help. “It’s not always easy to start that change by yourself.”

When Harry didn’t say anything, Zayn back pedaled a little, “You don’t have to take them down if you don’t want to, or course.”

Without saying anything, Harry threw the sponge he had still been clutching into the bottom of the sink and backed out of the kitchen. He walked through the hallway and pushed his door open. Zayn had followed behind, but stopped in the doorway. He stood there for awhile, scanning the walls. There were a lot. HappyMarkandHarry. Smiling down at him. There was a picture just above his desk of him and Mark at a party at the beginning of the school year - they weren’t alone. It was the party Harry had introduced Mark to Louis for the first time and Niall had stolen his camera and went around annoying everyone.

They were all smiling wide and pissed and their eyes were red from how late it was. Harry was in the middle, with Mark on his left side and Louis on his right. Mark’s arm was settled around his shoulders, and his fingers were stretched out to touch Louis, as well. It just looked like a group of people who liked each other hanging out a University party, to the untrained eye. You wouldn’t be able to tell that a few months later, the boy in the middle would walk in on them naked and sweaty and horrible thoughts.

So, perhaps the start was, in fact, the beginning of the end.

Every night before he went to sleep, Harry would look over at the photo and just…. At the beginning - the very sight of it would bring an onslaught of tears. But, after awhile - it had turned into a very specific numb feeling, which had completely restructured his entire personality. “I just… I don’t know how to do it.”

Zayn watched Harry’s shoulder’s tense, backed out of the door, slinked through Niall’s and when he walked back out a few minutes later, he was holding a large shoe box and Harry was trying not to die in memories.

Harry turned to watch Zayn looking through the supplies on his desk. He sorted around scraps of paper with tiny sketches on them and notes to call his mum, before finding a black permanent marker. He pulled the lid off and wrote “Mark” in sharp clean letters and placed it down on Harry’s bed. “I’m not saying you should throw them all away. Like, you never know what could happen.”

And if that was Zayn trying to imply Mark would ever want to love him again, it was a very nice (if reaching) sentiment. And he was grateful for it.

Harry backed away from the photo of MarkandHarry and Louis - he’d save it for last - and reached out to another one of the pictures on the wall. The tape ripping off of the walls was basically a dagger in his heart, but Zayn reached for it and placed it straight into the box.

They were thirty, or so, pictures in and Harry tried his best to act blankly, as if physically ridding Mark’s presence from his bedroom wasn’t a big deal. But despite the fact that he didn’t know much about Zayn - he had a feeling that he did know just _how_ big of a deal it was. He had a feeling that Zayn, at one point or another, had to go through a similar situation. The girl behind the counter at _Ming Yeun_ had teased him about how he sat around and wrote _things_. Perhaps that was what he had to rid _his_ room of once? The idea of Zayn sitting at home with that face writing things for his girlfriend was really endearing.

"I’m an English major," Zayn began to make conversation. Harry had a feeling that he himself, wasn’t expected to speak. "I take writing classes and poetry classes. _Uhm_ I really like my American Literature course.”

Harry grabbed another photo from Mark’s last birthday party, “None of that is a surprise.”

"No. I guess it’s not." Harry’s wall was fairly bare at that point with only a few pictures with Mark in them, left, so Zayn sat on the edge of the bed to let him handle the last few on his own. "I’ve got a midterm project I’ve been working on, too. We’ve all got to write a book."

"A whole book?" Harry paused in front of The Photo. "Is that what… El was talking about?"  

Zayn nodded and ran the palm of his hand along Harry’s bedding and, for the first time, kept his gaze off of Harry. “We can make it whatever we want, I guess - it’s going to get graded. But, the big part is that we’re supposed to, like, try and submit it to publishers…. Eleanor’s and Liam both offered to read it before I hand it over.”

Harry glanced back to Zayn for a little while and back to the photo. Braving up - he plucked it off the wall and brought it to the box. “What’s it called?”

The somewhat insecure smile Zayn directed towards Harry (which was the first time he had looked anything less than confident) had him placing the photo in and reaching in the basket next to his bed for the Navy Jumper. He folded it up and squished it in on top of the photos, so he could close the lid. Zayn watched all of these movements - eyes following the journey of the lid to it’s final destination, “Well, I… it’s currently _untitled_.”

That was something they had in common, “I completely understand that.”

Zayn shifted on the bed and Harry stood silent for a few minutes taking in his newly refreshed room. It was almost as if he’d forgotten what colors his walls were. The front door opening broke the stupor and a glance at the clock showed that it was two in the morning. “I should probably head home now,” Zayn’s voice spoke out and he raised himself from the bed. 

Harry glanced out the window to check how bad the rain was before offering to call a cab, which Zayn accepted, with a tap to the shoe box.

~~~

A pissed Niall watched the pair walk down the hallway and make their way to the front door. “I’ll see you later, Niall?” Zayn asked - tugging the heel of his shoes on and shrugging on his coat.

"Ya, see ya Zayn."

Harry pulled the door open and walked Zayn down the front steps. When they reached the bottom floor, they stopped just inside the glass and watched the rain outside. “I’ll see you next time… probably at the store,” he said while looking out for the car.

"Yeah… _Listen_ , I’m supposed to go to some friend’s party next weekend. I think Niall’s going, too. And last time he was at my flat he was telling Liam you could do with some human interaction.”

"I’m sorry?" Harry asked, mildly offended, but not at all surprised. It’s sort-of what being friends with Niall entailed, and he _had_ said Liam had been asking about him.

"That’s _not_ why I asked to hang out,” The car pulled up at the curb and Zayn pushed the door open a few inches so that the cold air wafted through. “I wouldn’t be around you if I didn’t want to be… Just think about it, yeah?”

Harry nodded numbly and Zayn laughed lowly, as if it was something Harry did often and was one of his favorite inside jokes. Harry didn’t get it. He didn’t get anything Zayn did, but for some reason that still seemed to make sense. 

He watched Zayn run through the rain, from _his_ flat, in _his_ clothes, and into the back of the car.

~~~

By the time he made it back upstairs, Niall was already in his room with the lights shut off. So, Harry switched off the TV that he and Zayn had left on when they went into his room, and shut off the lights in the living room. 

He shut his bedroom door behind him and pulled off all of the layers of clothing that he’d put on, merely for Zayn’s benefit - down to a pair of pants, slid the box into his closet, shut off his lights, and climbed into bed.

It was silent and still and the light from the moon did it’s best to push through the clouds and the rain and his curtains to hover over his bare walls.

And as Harry realized how calm his room felt, he turned to his side and mashed his face into his pillow with a weird mixture of a smile and a frown. It was nice - to not be watched by the person that had hurt him so badly, but at the same time… he was gone.

He was confused by this split, but perhaps Zayn was right about needing to be done to be done. And if Mark wanted him back, he could try, but Harry would try to not want him. That could be for the best. Maybe.

Yes. AtHomeZayn continued to be the most unpredictable.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn was not stalking Harry Styles.

Harry threw out the palm of his hands and pushed against the wood, allowing himself out of the building and into the cold. He gripped at the edge and swirled his body around to hold the door open for a few classmates that’d he’d never bothered to speak to before. Two tall leggy girls with wide smiles looked over to him, with a practiced flip of their hair. “Thanks Harry,” they both cooed in unison - which Harry responded to with a closed lipped smile and a curt nod of the head, before letting the door swing shut - once they’d exited the area.

It was cold, which was the only thing Harry could think about in that very moment, as he could _feel_ the tips of his ears going red. He could see the wind whipping around batches of fallen brown leaves and the specks of snow - that had started falling from the sky that morning - were also getting caught up in the action. Uncomfortable with the chill, Harry reached up to bunch the scarf he had wrapped around his neck, further up to protect his nose from the bite.

He was working a later shift that night at _Book Ends_ , and he already knew that his instructions for the day centered around cleaning. And he super excited. _Super_ excited. Which was sarcasm. Although, _Book Ends_ had become a normal part of his routine, so he wasn’t too upset about it. Meg was working with him that night and would be manning the counter. While Harry took on the more difficult work, and would be scrubbing windows and dusting shelves off. And if  _necessary_ , shoveling the snow the was likely to be building up outside the doors, at that very moment. He wasn’t looking forward to going home later that night smelling like Pine Sol.

Harry shrugged the straps of his backpack into a more settled position on his right shoulder and started making his way down the sidewalk that was littered with a lot of other various students - who also happened to be freezing to death. He tried his best to dodge the others - who didn’t try to dodge him - and shield himself from the wind. His breath puffed out in small white clouds and he sniffed away the threat of a runny nose.

Harry had been in class for a few hours after having skipped breakfast, because he’d ignored Niall’s initial warning about time running slim. Which, he’d started to regret only a couple of minutes into Feyne’s lecture about the lighting that one of his classmates had been experimenting with. From what Harry knew, it was nothing new to him and he wasn’t sure why they were talking about it in their third year into these classes. Harry let his eyes glance around his current location - noting he was nowhere near home - when his stomach started to rumble. He was near Cappel Hall, though - which had one of the nicer cafeteria’s with the good soup that Harry always liked. He and Niall hadn’t lived in Cappel Hall when they still filed for campus housing. But, they _had_ lived nearby in Randle House and Harry could remember sometimes walking out of his own building to fetch the Potato soup, whenever he wasn’t feeling well, or was just a bit down.

Which lately, was all of the time. Although - his small, unplanned, unexpected therapy session with AtHisHomeZayn, had actually helped him in some odd way. It was nice. To go home and into his room without having Mark’s eyes following his every move. Strange.

Snow was beginning to bunch up into piles on the ground, crunching under his shoes, and reflecting the sun off of them. So, fishing a pair of sun glasses out of his coat pocket - he slid them onto his face and turned right on the appropriate corner. 

~~~

The entire space was filled with young adults and teenagers who _thought_ they were young adults - huddling together or sitting alone - over trays filled with food and cups of hot beverages. Just trying to get warm, before they had to brave the weather once more. Or for the people who _lived_ in Cappel - go back upstairs to the roommates they might of just been desperate to get away from. Entirely possible. Harry pulled at his scarf - to free his mouth open - as he made his way out of the door way and further inside the dining hall. Eventually making his way through the dining area and into the order section - he settled himself in the line that led him to what he wanted and waited for the faceless people in front of him to get their orders in and move on.

Harry reached out for one of the tacky orange trays, as he strode up to the counter. “The potato soup and a slice of the sour dough bread,” he requested when the spotted boy in a purple apron asked him what he wanted. After a few minutes the same boy slid the food onto the counter and Harry placed them down carefully. A group of boys - tall, knowingly attractive, and sweaty from the sport they probably played - laughed together near the beverages, as Harry shuffled his way into the mix to fill up a Styrofoam cup with a roasted coffee. “ _Oi, watch yourself, mate_ ,” one of them smiled well enough, when Harry bumped into another as he was turning around. The boys’ hand on his shoulder stilled him straight, and fell once Harry could get a lid onto the cups’ edges. “Thanks,” he spoke quietly and set his drink down next to the bowl and bread.

Harry shuffled through the check out line, as quickly as he could without tripping over anyone else or sloshing his soup to the side. 

He walked through the lines that continued to file in and out into the mess hall, where he craned his neck for a few minutes to find himself an empty table. Despite his prior affinity for friends, Harry had always been somewhat unimpressed with crowds. Much preferring to sit alone in comfortable, happy, solitude when he had the chance. Unless, of course it was Niall.

….He’d sit with Zayn Malik, too. Yes. He’d _definitely_ sit with Zayn Malik.

Harry shook away thoughts (he’d had a lot of thoughts lately) of his… acquaintance (which was a question all it’s own), when he spied a small group pulling themselves out of their seats and throwing their coats back on, to leave. Before anyone else had a chance to snag the free spot, Harry slinked his way through the maze of tables to claim the it. Carefully sliding his tray down, Harry pulled his coat off and placed it down on the bottom of the chair - to have a little cushion from the cold to his bum.

He sighed happily when the warmth of the soup hit his tongue for the first time - a startling contrast to the wind outside.

While he ate, Harry let his mind wander to the invitation he had received from Zayn earlier in the week. Niall had approached a few days ago to ask if he was going, but Harry wasn’t sure. Zayn had stated - while they were trapped together in the dark of the doorway - that he wanted Harry to go. That he wouldn’t hang around him if he didn’t really want to. But… with the fascination and appreciation Harry had had for Zayn’s features, since he first walked through the shop’s doors, and the general thoughts that had slowly started to work their way through his mind - Harry wasn’t sure that he _could_ be friends with the boy. 

He wanted to be, though. Wanted to get to be around him without having a panic attack. Wanted to be around him and being able to speak.

Hanging around Zayn (well, what little he had), had been fairly soothing, despite his constant worry that Zayn didn’t actually want to be there. The worry that Zayn  _actively_ tried to get away from the aura of Pathetic that constantly orbited around Harry.

But, _he_ had asked Harry if they could walk together the night he’d had another full blown meltdown. _He_ had asked Harry to hang out, when Liam had (who Harry had guessed was) his girlfriend over. And _Zayn_  had been the one to ask him if he wanted to go to his friend’s party. So, if Harry was to set aside all of his personal insecurities - he supposed Zayn didn’t think he was a _complete_ social pariah. From what he could gather, Zayn appeared to be in the market for a new friend. Maybe he was bored and was being told to broaden his horizons? After all, Niall was consistently trying to push _Harry_ back out into the world, going on about how “concerned” he was. And Zayn had implied that he’d known what it was like to fall a bit. So, it was possible.

Of course, Harry didn’t tend to have a fascination with his friend’s lips, so… he didn’t know how well an actual friendship between them would go. As much as he loved Niall and as many photos he had taken of him and as much as he had kissed him and scene him naked - it wasn’t the same _thing_. Harry wanted to _kiss_  Zayn - to see if his lips were as soft as they looked and he imagined. And he’d _just then_  realized it, as he hunched over a bowl of cream and potato. He _just_  realized that that was what he wanted. He felt constricted around Zayn in a very different way than he was currently around Mark. Around Mark - Harry wanted to _cry_ and scream and _punch_ all at the same time. But he couldn’t do any of that. When Mark was around - Harry felt trapped in his own body, afraid of looking stupid and making a mistake to eventually confirm that the redhead had made the right choice. Around Zayn - Harry worried that the raven haired lad would stop finding him interesting (because he wasn’t) and want to leave. Or state it had all been a joke. But so far, he never did. Zayn had recently been broken up with a girlfriend, but there was _something_ about a ridiculously photogenic human being trying to help you through a dark fog clouding your mind - that made you intrigued and wondrous and… 

The clunk of a bottle settling on his table, shocked his outward attention and brought his eyes up off the bowl he’d been swirling his spoon in. The subject of his thoughts - Zayn Malik - was settling himself opposite of Harry, with a subtle smile attached to his face.

And Harry didn’t understand how This Face was always popping up out of nowhere - looking surely confident and content within himself. He glanced quickly to both sides, in a vain hope he’d discover the portal Zayn had emerged from - to no avail. 

"Hey," was all Zayn said, as he lowered a bag to a ground and started pealing at the saran wrap which was wrapped around a sandwich - that was sealed shut with a price tag. "What’s happening?"

"I uh…. nothing."

~~~

Zayn was _not_ stalking Harry Styles. 

Despite the constant mocking and friendly (but insistent) jabs that made their way at him from Liam at rapid fire - he honestly wasn’t. 

So, okay. Harry sitting there with his cheeks flushed red in surprise, was an _okay_ sight. A sight that he had grown quite accustomed to seeing in the (somewhat) short time of Harry’s employment. There had been something off about the boy (who he’d learnt was a year or so younger than himself), from the first moment he’d seen him sitting behind the counter. Right away, Zayn had had a feeling that Harry’s wide green eyes weren’t normally so drawn off. He’d had a feeling that Harry hadn’t always slouched so far over in a show of defeat, or had a (harmless enough) bite in his words whenever he had to help a customer. It had taken him awhile (and it was difficult to deduce whilst Liam shoved him at the counter and groaned in his ear to “ _Just talk to him, mate_ ”) to realize that Harry wasn’t actually naturally grouchy and silent. Thirty or so times stood at the counter, watching Harry bag away his books, and studying his face had left him realizing just how sad the boy was. And when he and Liam had met up with Harry at Niall’s show a few weeks back, Zayn considered his thoughts had been confirmed when Mark James had shown up and tears began to form behind Harry’s eyes.

Harry was tall and broad. At least, he should be. But, for the last few months, Zayn had watched him try to tuck and shrink himself away - uncomfortable with the world he’d been dealt. It was… strange to watch. And _gripping_ in a way that might of been considered disrespectful. But he thought it could be flattering.

Zayn allowed his focus to remain on the wrapping - that was sticking just a bit under the edge of his nail - and let the boy across the table from him collect himself from his sudden startle. Harry _had_ looked like he’d been thinking fairly deeply about something, when Zayn had initially spotted him from the front door. “Eleanor’s party is tonight,” Zayn started speaking once he decided the flush in Harry’s cheeks wasn’t going down anytime soon. It made him chuckle softly to himself, in a way that seemed to have become reserved for the floppy haired, lumpy jumper wearing boy. “Are you, like, going to go?” he kept his gaze down and away from judgement, as he ripped the rest of the wrap away and brought the uncovered sandwich up to his mouth to take a bite. It was alright for a pre-made lunch.

Zayn brought his eyes back up to Harry’s and locked them together in question. He chewed carefully - all of a sudden self conscious to how ugly his mouth might look like in the act. 

Harry shuffled in his spot from side to side and Zayn could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes. “I uh… I have to work,” was what Harry responded with. Zayn deflated in his mind, but he stood strong on the outside.

"You can come after work."

"… I just-"

"-it’s just a normal party. No one’s going to be, like, snorting coke off the coffee tables." Harry’s Hint of Smiles were Zayn’s favorites. There was something about them… Zayn could tell that the boy tried _so hard_ to be unhappy - and he probably was. For awhile. He had gotten hurt by some dick some while back and he was allowed to be upset about it, but time would _pass_ and… he would have to start _trying_ to be sad. Zayn just had a feeling that those lines were starting to die down and if he had his way, he’d be one of the people who helped smooth them over. There were times - times like this - where Harry would attempt to stifle the smile etching it’s way onto his face. Zayn been trying to describe the way it looked for a long while - hunched over a brown notebook with tight and messy words scrawled across the pages.

Harry’s fingers still clutched strongly at the line of the spoon - and Zayn had a fleeting flash of how Harry would possibly wrap a fist around other things. But, it was gone as soon as it arrived. Harry wasn’t quite at functioning level, yet, for that to be a thought he should think…. At least while he was actually around Harry, himself. “I’ll… see if I can make it.”

Zayn unscrewed his orange juice and placed the cap down onto the surface of the table. He didn’t go to take a sip, though. Instead he reached a bare hand across the distance and shuffled his fingers in a motion that had Harry scrunching his brows together. “Give me your phone,” he requested with (what he thought was) a determined expression. Harry didn’t respond right away, which prompted another small chuckle from Zayn’s throat. “Hand it over.”

Zayn watched Harry pull himself a couple of inches off of his chair and reach down for his back pocket. He waited patiently for Harry to eventually rip the device out of fabric, because Harry wore some ridiculously tight jeans, and hand it over into the palm of his hand. Zayn chose that moment to ignore the slight brush of Harry’s fingertips against his skin, but he made a mental note to write it down. It was another Thing. 

His phone wasn’t locked, which Zayn found oddly trusting and a showing in specific character traits that most people didn’t have, so he swiftly found his way to New Contact and typed in his name and number. Before, he handed back the phone - he called himself, so that he’d have Harry’s number in return. Sliding the phone back across the table and chuckling at Harry’s unsure expression, Zayn reached back down for his sandwich, “I’ll text you the address later.”

~~~

Harry let his head rest against the surface of the counter, where he’d abandoned his other duties - far to cold out to care if the snow blocked them in. Meg had sworn that Harry would get in trouble, but Gary _loved_ Harry even if he refused to actually admit it out loud. “ _He’s not going to care_ " was all Harry said when he settled himself onto the stool next to Meg and tugged the sleeves of his jumper over his wrists and used the cushion as a pillow. The phone in his back pocket sounded and Harry made no move to answer. But, when it sounded for the second time a few minutes later - and Meg shot him an annoyed look from where she was reading through student request letters for _Book Ends_ to stock their work - he blindly reached back to pull it out and glance at the screen. Niall. “Hey, Niall,” he groaned quietly into the crook of his elbow.

Niall laughed happily on the other end, “Hey, ya ready ta go?”

"…No…"

"Doesn’t mat’er. I’m on me way," Harry could hear wind whipping through an open window and then the click of being hung up on. 

"What’s going on?" Meg muttered and placed a request letter in the box that she had cheerily marked ‘ _Hell_ No’. Harry rolled his head around - curls spiraling out in weird directions - to face her, with a sigh.

"I’m… There’s a party I should go to, but the person who invited me… gives me anxiety."

Meg chortled shrilly and clawed for another envelope, “What, is Niall throwing a ‘rager’?”

"No… this girl. _Eleanor_ , I think her name is?”

“ _Zayn’s friend_? I’ve heard him mention an Eleanor. Zayn’s friend?  _Zayn_?” Harry winced at Meg’s squeaking tone and increasing speed of words per second. He nodded as best he could in his settled position - in a feeble attempt to stop her sparked interest. “Zayn invited you to the party? He _invited_ you? Was he letting a lot of people know, or just you?”

From what Harry knew, Zayn had just been asking _him_ if he had wanted to go. But, Harry didn’t know much about Zayn. Maybe he wasn’t nearly as quiet and level headed as he made himself seem to be? Perhaps he had gone all through the campus letting students he’d never even met know about El’s party. Maybe the small spark of hope Harry had had that Zayn wanted to get to know him and only him, _was_ just a crazy lie he had made up in his head to try and feel better about himself and the doom of gloom that had surrounded him for so long. But, maybe that lie and his own interests in photographing him for a school project (and his own sense of fascination with the miracle that was Zayn’s face) had planted a small seed of help somewhere in his mind. But if none of it was true - if Zayn had no interest in getting to know him and it had all been a waste of time - Harry wasn’t sure if it made him feel better of worse. 

They had sat eating lunch in relative silence for the duration of his time in Cappel Hall, until Zayn had declared that he needed to finish up a paper before that night, scrunched up his garbage, and went to toss it in a nearbye bin. And just like that, he was sitting alone with an empty bowl (which of course he snapped a picture of) and he wasn’t sure if _that_ made him feel better or worse, either. 

Zayn had texted him with Eleanor’s address and hour or so later, just as Harry was hanging up his coat and checking into work.

_DingDing_

He turned away from Meg (who was still inquiring if she was allowed to go and if he and Zayn were friends and if Zayn ever asked about her) to find Niall sticking his head through the front door and waving him outside, “I got a cab wait’n!”

Harry stayed frozen for a few more seconds, to give himself time to decide if an uncomfortable party with a guy present who was his sort-of friend was worth moving from his spot. His _first_ thought was ‘Fuck No - Fall Asleep Here’, but Niall’s smiling face (probably because he was happy other people were _finally_ asking Harry to do things, again) had him dragging himself from the stool and into the back room to find his coat. “It’s not my party to invite people to, Meg,” Harry apologized with a quick touch to the shoulder. Human Contact. He shrugged on his coat, did up the buttons, and swirled his scarf back around his neck. Niall was leaning back out the door to yell to the driver that they were coming. “I’ll talk you up, yeah?” he lied - with the best intentions. Meg was annoying, but she didn’t mean anything by it. And while he liked her, he was also smart enough to know that Zayn had been attempting to disperse her advances for as long as he’d been at the store. 

She pursed her lips a bit and cocked her head to the right, before she nodded. “Okay, babes. Remember. I’m _great_ in bed and I’m as bendy as he likes.”

Harry chuckled lowly and gave her a half a hug in ‘okay’. Established Human Contact. He followed Niall back out into the night, but not before turning back to Meg pulling out another envelope, “Will do.”

~~~

It was loud enough to feel the vibrations pulsing against the walls - the floors - through his shoes - making his ears shake and cringe at the volume. He hadn’t seen anybody snorting coke off the coffee table, but he had seen a few tiny pills being passed between scantily clad girls and many broad lads pressing a blunt butt in between their lips. 

Nothing he wasn’t familiar with, at some point or another. Parties in Uni were plentiful - and there was a point where he could always find a party with people he knew, if he wanted to. Or, if he wanted a change of scenary - he’d just show up at a random one and make some new friends. He wasn’t big in the drug crowd, but he’d gotten pissed on way more than one occasion.

El’s apartment was ridiculously nice, for being a student. She had roommates, of course. But, Harry had a feeling that her parents were paying all of the rent, much like his own mum (who helped as best she could), but on a much grander scale. He liked, though, that she was rich and _still_ working in the Chinese restaurant. He sure knew he wouldn’t be working anywhere if he didn’t have to. But then again, if he wasn’t at _Book Ends_ , he’d never of been sent into a deeper pit of insecurities, because he couldn’t snap a simple photo of someone. 

And where would the fun be in that?

Speaking of which, Harry had been at Eleanor’s party for over an hour and still hadn’t seen Zayn anywhere against the masses. And Niall - _Fuck Niall_ \- had abandoned him fifteen minutes prior when a girl with orange lipstick and joy _radiating_ off of her every move, named Leigh-Anne, hooked a painted finger into the belt loops of his trousers and dragged him away to the dance floor, or wherever. Basically, he was alone to wander from room to room and try not to look lost. LostHarry. What a shock.

Eventually, Harry pushed through another mysterious door. Which - instead of leading to another room of nameless people drinking, or (in one extreme case) a bed with two naked people doing things Harry hadn’t done in awhile, but didn’t need a live show of - led to a completely empty kitchen. Harry let out a small sigh of relief, as the door swung shut behind him and the sounds from the party on the other side drowned out to a dull thud. Somewhere in the back of his head, Harry could feel an impending headache and… he just felt stupid for showing up at all. He made his way further into the room - running a finger along the island and up into a bowl with some plain crisps. He had just settled himself into one of the chairs when the door pushed open once more and a pair of legs stemming out from a short skirt made their way in. Harry’s immediate and natural was to shrink away within himself and hope that he wasn’t noticed, but Eleanor’s face was attached to the body that was attached to the legs. And she was smiling happily at him. So, he corrected his mind to turn the corners of his own lips up - in what he hoped was a smile worthwhile of the one he was receiving.

"Hey, _Harry Styles_! I’m glad you could make it,” she grinned with a flick of her head to throw the hair falling in her face back over her shoulder. Her hands were full of empty bowls and despite her smile, she looked like she was struggling a bit. So, Harry pulled himself from his cemented spot and strode over to grab the burden out of her hands and place them in the only available counter space.

Harry nodded at her thanks, and then watched her pull a cabinet open to grab more bags. Harry stood tall and crooked, as he used the tips of his finger tips to run along the hem of the black jumper he was wearing. He felt cold and uncomfortable, despite the body heat emitting from the next room. “ _Harry Styles_?” he questioned with a crook of his brow.

Eleanor tore open another bag and started to empty the contents into one of the previously empty bowls, before looking over her shoulder and nodding happily, “Yep! ‘Harry Styles. Lanky. New cashier at the book store. _Cute_. Quiet. Oh the _adjectives_!”

She laughed. A pretty laugh - clear and sharp, as a bell. A person shouldn’t of been allowed to sound so nice, but he still didn’t understand, “The _adjectives_?”

Harry let his fingers start to run over the surface of the island, once more, and cringed a bit once he hit something sticky. Eleanor had paused, though, and was examining his face. It wasn’t as tense, as he had become used to. She didn’t have the attention or skill that Zayn had, so she wasn’t too concerning. “You _are_ cute.”

"Oh…. thank you," it sounded like a question.

"Documenting this  _extraordinary_  event?” Eleanor pointed to the camera (ever present) hung around his neck and resting on the flat of his stomach. Harry shrugged a bit and knocked half-heartily at the object with his right hand.

"What I can."

Eleanor’s responding smile was toothy, bright, and warm, as if Harry’s confirmation that her party had him taking a few pictures was _worth_ anything. And Harry made the decision right then and there, that he liked her. She was bubbly and seemingly grounded, despite the fortune she clearly had grown up in. A delicate hand gestured him forward, and he moved without much thought. Eleanor grabbed the camera from around his neck and held it out in front of them. He stilled a bit when she threw an arm around his waist (Unexpected Human Contact), but smiled enough into the camera by the time it clicked. 

Harry took the camera back, immediately after and placed it back in it’s spot. “I can see why Zee likes you,” El hummed and went back to her Crisps Mission. 

And the mention of Zayn had Harry wondering all over again (and his mind reeling) what he was even doing at this party, “… Have you seen him, by the way?”

"Zayn? Yeah, he just got here. One of his professors has been ramming them with work, so… yeah. Out there," she waved aimlessly back in the direction of the door and Harry left with a small goodbye.

He was quickly immersed once more in sweaty people dancing along to heady music and from the corner of his eye, he could spot Niall amongst the crowd with two arms wrapped around Leigh-Anne’s waist. It was nice to know that she hadn’t turned out to be a preying mantis who’d killed him the second they’d disappeared, earlier. 

A small girl with white hair, suddenly slinked her way up to Harry and started to move around him, but he softly pressed her to the side where her friends had watched her move - and continued through the writhing bodies. And then, there he was. Zayn Malik. Laughing quite largely with a small group, at something a pink haired beauty had said. Harry watched for awhile, unsure if his invitation to the party included an invitation to speak. Which he knew was a stupid thought, but he didn’t want to interrupt whatever the group was talking about. He startled slightly, though, when Zayn’s mirthful eyes connected with his conflicted ones - and he watched Zayn nod goodbyes to his _actual_ friends (the pink haired girl looking bothered over at Harry) and start forward towards him. “Alright?” Zayn asked, once he finally planted himself in front of Harry’s feet. 

Harry took in Zayn’s appearance - he was casually perfect, as per usual. In a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. And he let his eyes train over the dark tattoos that wrapped their way around his forearms, before remembering to respond. For some reason, Harry felt like his answer meant more than it meant. Was he alright? At that moment - sure. He could _already_ imagine the look on Niall’s face when he mentioned that he had somehow made a sort-of friend in El. Was he alright as a _whole_? For some reason, he felt that might of been what the question was actually asking. Of course, Harry was a  _spaz_  and in a darkly lit room with pissed students popping pills that would do who knew what, smoking various things, and grinding against one another - he was more than likely over thinking it. “Alright… yeah, I’m alright.”

Zayn nodded and brought the cup settled in his fingers, to his lips to take a sip. And if Harry had been paying closer attention to _Zayn’s_ actions instead of his _own_ insecurities - he’d of seen thin fingers shaking over plastic and a happily surprised glint in hazel eyes. “How long have you been here?”

"Niall and I," he waved somewhere behind him, where Leigh-Anne was practically sucking on Niall’s neck. "-we got here two… ish hours ago."

Zayn’s eyes widened ever so slightly - and if Harry wasn’t standing directly in front of him, he wouldn’t of noticed at all. “Oh wow, I’m sorry,” Zayn spoke over the thumping base, that continued to torture the bottoms of Harry’s feet. 

"Why?" He could swear that he used to love parties. This one hadn’t been so awful, but he hadn’t been in such a loud environment in a really long time - and that was, perhaps, the problem. Or, it was the fact that he always lost his footing when Zayn was around. 

And then Zayn seemed a bit uncomfortable, which had the wheels in Harry’s head spinning, once more. “Well, I invited you. You know? So, I should of…” his voice drifted away, as he looked back at the pink haired girl, who had placed a hand on the edge of his shoulder.

"Zayn, I was hoping ta talk ta you," her voice rang out. Harry backed up a few steps - intimidated by her boisterous personality and her familiarity with the person before him. But, Zayn was turning around and shaking his head back and forth, "I’m busy right now, Perrie. Some other time, yeah?" Her responding frown and fingers gripped at his waist, had Zayn sighing and tilting his head down to look at her more clearly. " _Another time_ , yeah?” Begrudgingly, she ran a small hand through her hair and groaned a bit at her suggested dismissal. It was hard to hear their conversation over the music, because they were turned in the opposite direction. But, there was something about the way her fingers danced across the fabric of Zayn’s shirt that suggested this could of been _it_. The relationship Zayn had lost. The one that made him able to understand what Harry had been going through and how to get past it.

Harry didn’t miss the slight glare he received, before she ( _Perrie_  - her name was Perrie) eventually let go and made her way back through the crowd and to the group she had left behind. Harry watched her journey over the back of Zayn’s shoulder - Liam was there, standing with his arm around the waist of a girl with wild hair. “Sorry,” Zayn’s voice broke his trance. “That’s Perrie. She’s…. I don’t really know how to describe it.”

"Isn’t that what you _do_? Describe things?”

Zayn used the laugh he’d had on reserve for Harry, “Well, yeah. Like, I guess it _is_.” He snapped his head to the right - in question - and then started to lead them away from the middle of what had become the dance floor. Harry walked behind Zayn, as he lead them towards a more clear area. An empty wall. Away from all of the people moving together, and away from Perrie - who Harry could _swear_ was still watching them walk away. “Have you, been okay?” Zayn asked, as he settled his weight against the surface. 

Harry shuffled slightly from his left to his right foot and avoided Zayn’s gaze, “No run-ins…. if that’s what you’re asking about.”

"Maybe, yeah."

“ _Okay_ , well then,” Harry pulled at the sleeves of his jumper and considered counting all of the lines in the wood floor below him. Perhaps if he focused all of his attention there instead of the conversation currently happening, Zayn would grow bored and leave him alone. Of course, Harry had sought _him_ out - after wondering where the boy was for a few hours. So, the sudden idea seemed somewhat of a foolish thought. “I’ve been pretty good… just… waiting for the tragedy of my personality to become charming again.”

Zayn’s eyebrow quirked at that, and a small smile threatened the edge of his lips. From the position Harry’s head was settled at, he could see Zayn moving his pointer finger in an odd, swirling, motion. And after watching it for a what felt like an hour (but was actually half a second), he realized it was miming a pencil. Writing out in the air, what Harry had just said. And that didn’t make a lot of sense, but Zayn was an English major. Or maybe he just had a bad memory and the movement helped him stay attached to the conversation he was having. Or maybe he was just really fucking weird. All believable scenarios. “It already is,” Zayn was humming carefully. “.. Charming.”

Harry didn’t know what exactly he was supposed to do, then. So, he let his finger tips slip away from the fabric he was clutching and started forward to lean next to Zayn. The last time he was this close to his ‘friend’, Zayn was hugging him from behind, while Harry was sobbing into his pillow. He tried not to think about that night. There was no way Harry could of embarrassed himself further, but what was truly awful about the entire situation had been that Zayn _never_ mentioned it. The boy had done small (but quite large) things to help him out of his fog, but it was as if he knew how uncomfortable the entire act had made Harry. Zayn seemed to know how badly Harry didn’t want him to remember that it happened, so he didn’t say a word.

It made him feel even weaker than he had felt.

"So…" Harry started, while looking across the room for Niall, who was - once again - nowhere to be found. He was getting a little tired of trying to talk over the music, but time around Zayn was rare. Especially time around Zayn that didn’t consist of Harry having some sort of anxiety attack. "Is Perrie the person you - is she who made you - _relate_?” Harry tried to ask, getting lost somewhere in the middle of his sentence. 

In the few moments when Harry was actually speaking about Mark, Zayn hadn’t actually pried. He’d never asked outright if Mark had cheated - instead content with forming his own theories. He’d never been blunt about Harry’s issues - instead dancing around the topic as much as he could, without being completely unaffected or unconcerned. And despite how understanding Zayn had been to him, Harry realized part-way through that he was starting to do the _exact opposite_ all to satiate his own curiosities. And he wanted to back pedal as quickly as he could, once Zayn’s head slowly rose up to meet his eyes. Fuck.

But, Zayn was nodding a bit _and_ shaking his head at the same time. It was an odd movement to watch. “Well, yeah and… Well, _yeah_ ,” Zayn rubbed softly at his forehead and Harry spied a fairly large ring. Zayn was odd. “My relationship with Perrie was it’s own kind-of disaster, but I’m also…. I seem to have problems with keeping people around. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. Sometimes just, like, _regular_ friends. You know? I… vanish sometimes… and that bothers people.”

Harry tried to remain as still, as he possibly could - choosing to watch Zayn wave to a tall girl with brown hair, who’d just called out his name with a wide smile. He’d said ‘boyfriends’. That’s what he’d said. Zayn had said he had problems, sometimes, keeping around his ‘girlfriends’ and _'boyfriends'_. All thoughts of maybe possibly (but probably never) getting to find out if Zayn’s lips were as soft as they looked, came rushing back to him. And Harry had snogged _plenty_ of people in dark rooms at loud parties. They were nice settings for dirty deeds and Zayn had probably experienced that sort of thing before with girls, but also boys. Because, he’d had boyfriends. _Boyfriends_.

Zayn was still talking. “-so she slept with him while I was gone. Like, Liam is one of the few people who don’t freak out when I lock myself away, so…”

Zayn was staring straight at him with big eyes and smiling wider than Harry had ever seen him do. And it was so adorable and so _photogenic_ , that Harry wanted to walk outside and stand directly in front of oncoming traffic. “ _Charming_ ,” Zayn laughed The Laugh and cocked his head to the right.

He thumbed around the edges of the shutter button on his camera. Harry couldn’t see what about him, his personality, or his manners was charming. From what he had caught of the tail end of that sentence, while Harry was having a breakdown over his new piece of information - Zayn had told a full fledged story that probably answered the question of which he’d asked. And then some. The look on Zayn’s face suggested that he’d gathered part way through that Harry had lost track of the conversation. But, he didn’t seem upset or annoyed in anyway. In fact, he looked intrigued. Entertained. “I like you,” Zayn continued through his smile, but Harry’s mind was fuzzy and he felt a little lost. It was a similar feeling to the first few days after he’d found Mark and Louis, but… not similar at all. He’d felt numb then. But, it was a sad numb - one that he could never allow himself to go through, again. It had destroyed him.

His mind around Zayn, was something completely different.

When Harry pulled himself from his thoughts again, Zayn had attempted to cover the plains of with his one free hand. But, Harry could see the smile edging out from underneath his palm. It was nice that Zayn found him so amusing. That made him feel tons better about himself. Harry bent over to shake his hair out, before standing straight and coughing once into a closed fist. Zayn had dropped his hand (small grin still locked onto his face) and used his finger to write into nothingness, for the second time. Before Harry knew what was happening, Zayn stopped the motion, dropped the smile - to set a look of subtle determination, and leaned in briefly to press his lips against Harry’s. Once.

Zayn lent back immediately - creating the most fleeting kiss Harry had ever experienced - and settled back into his position against the wall.

"…" Harry stood stock still. Shocked, confused, and foggy. But, Zayn’s face read unsure and guarded, as well. So, he was pleased to know that he wasn’t the only one… out of sorts. Zayn’s lips, what short time Harry had actually gotten to experience of them, _were_ soft - just like he had begun to imagine them to be. And they tasted like beer. Not what he had imagined. But still, good.

Zayn set his cup off to the side and pushed off of the wall with his elbow to stand straight, “Whenever you feel like it, like, when you feel like you want to - if you want to… I want to do _that_ with you,” he stumbled out. But, even Zayn stuttering and unsure seemed so much more self confident than anyone Harry had been in a really long time. He was envious of that. When he returned his focus, Zayn was walking away from him and into the crowd of people. It only took a few short seconds, before the sight of him was gone and Harry was left alone, like the wallflower he was.

~~~

"Babes, maybe you should man up a bit," Eleanor giggled drunkenly, as she swung her hips to the muffled music making it’s way through the floorboards from downstairs. Zayn watched her shuffle through her closet from his place layed out on her bed - arms supporting the weight of his head.

"I have it handled."

"You do _not_ have it handled!” He watched her grab for a different black dress than the one she was wearing. One that hadn’t been attacked with a tidal wave of Grolsch. She struggled to pull the one she was wearing up and over her shoulders, and Zayn allowed himself to briefly appreciate his friends’ figure (but only for a moment), before she was pulling the fresh dress on. He laughed loudly at the new state of her hair, which earned him a strong glare. “Don’t look at me like that! Adam’s here, I can’t look like a slag.”

"You know you don’t and _yes_. I do have it handled.”

Eleanor straightened out the hem of her dress and turned to look at him sadly. “Dani called me, because Liam won’t stop talking to her about what a mess you are. And not even a _fun_ mess that’s going to entertain me, but like a _sad_ mess.”

Zayn shook his head bumpily, through her entire rant. He was not a mess. He was perfectly fine. “His boyfriend cheated on him,” was all he said - and all he planned to say on that particular matter. But, Eleanor had a different agenda - and continued to push him. _This_ was why - the very reason - he didn’t let anyone read the things that he wrote, until they were complete and he was satisfied that whatever it was didn’t completely suck.

"Is that really _such_ a big deal, that you can’t just go up to him and tell him that you want to fuck!?”

"He _walked in_ on them - that’s what Niall told Liam,” Zayn sometimes wondered why he spoke to El, at all. DrunkEleanor was a little too blunt for his particular taste, and not necessarily as right about everything as she thought. He loved her, though, and all that. “And I don’t want to shag, Harry. Like, that’s not all I want - is what I mean.” He pulled his arms out from under his head and dragged his body up into a seated position. That wasn’t it. Would he love to sleep with Harry? He couldn’t even _begin_ to explain how attractive he found the younger boy. Harry was tall and lean and his jaw and hands and eyes. And _yes_. Zayn could (and maybe had) imagine what all of that would look like rolling around with him - sweaty and delicious. But, that really wasn’t all. There was something indescribably (honestly indescribable - Zayn had been working on writing the right words for a really long time) about Harry’s face. He looked sweet and adorable and… something else. Whatever it was - Zayn hadn’t been lucky enough to be able to see what it was, yet. But, he wanted to. _Really_ badly. Zayn wanted to sit around with Harry, watching recordings of the X Factor that they had both missed, eating takeaway, and not talking. He wanted to find out what Harry had really been like before the breakdown. Zayn  _had_ helped Harry take those pictures down from his wall. He had looked so _happy_ about everything in those photos - and Zayn wanted to have a part in making Harry look happy about everything, again. Even a small part. However brief.

Zayn also wanted to find a way to finish his project, because Professor Sprout (that was _literally_ his name - and they had all been forewarned from previous students to not make any Harry Potter jokes) was really drilling for everyone to start turning in their work.

He chuckled softly at the face Harry had made, when earlier he’d mentioned previously having boyfriends. It had made him remember, quite suddenly, that that aspect of him isn’t immediately clear to most people - and obviously hadn’t been to him. That every time Liam would shove him forward towards the counter - laughing somewhat uncontrollably - Harry definitely had no clue what was going on. It would explain a lot of the faces he gave off.

"I talked to him, a bit before you dragged yourself here," El’s voice broke his thoughts. She was combing through her hair - fixing the strands that had sprung up with the static of fresh fabric. "He’s _super_ cute, Zee. Dimples for _days_.”

That’s all he wanted. “Yeah. He is.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry stretched out the length of his legs and frowned slightly at the feel of the blanket thrown over his shoulders and the smell of the pillow his nose was buried into. None of which were his.

"I just need… one more," Harry huffed a quiet breath, as Feyne lent over his work station and thumbed through the portfolio of small prints. For the second time. Or third. Thirtieth. Honestly, Harry had lost count of this personal invasion. Because, that’s what it all had started to feel like. A personal invasion. His professor probably thought a lot differently - considering all of the photos he’d been taking were for class work, but…

Feyne nodded at him briefly and shut the front cover. “I like your progression,” he started and slid the book back over into Harry’s awaiting hands. “They start quite…. hollow, but as they proceed forward - you can feel the _air_ trying to push through.”

"What is - My life?"

His teacher blinked once - remarkably slowly for him. Feyne was clearly unimpressed with the Jeopardy reference - and it had Harry wondering what exactly was going on in his professors’ life. Because, he’d started out a lot more fun than this. A lot more likely to surprise them with an early dismissal, or a clever joke. But then again, he had to deal with students like Harry all day, so he could sort-of understand his withering state. “Anyway, Mr. Styles. I like it.”

"Thank you."

The bags under Feyne’s eyes were darker than they’d been last week. He didn’t look upset, he just looked annoyed. A quick thought fleeted through his mind, that he enjoyed that he wasn’t the only person in the world who wasn’t feeling perfect. And he hated himself, right away, for think such a thing. “Pretend you don’t hear me, but I’m more than positive that you’ll get some of the studio space at the end of this,” something happy in Harry twitched, because Studio Space. A real place to display his work and _yes_ , it was just for a couple of nights and two other students would also be presented, but it was a _huge_ deal. He didn’t even know how to respond, but Harry did take note of the students near his table, look over somewhat angrily. They hadn’t been told the same. “I just want to ask,” Feyne continued through the fog. “What’s the last picture?”

Harry ducked his head for a few seconds to look at the leather binding on his portfolio and sighed, “Just the subject that’s supposed to be in all of the others.”

~~~

Step by step, Harry climbed up the stair-well until he reached the mat outside of his and Niall’s front door. Huffing a few puffs of air, he maneuvered the basket cradled on the side of his hip into a better position, so that he could kick open the door with the meat of his thigh. It wasn’t as easy, as he made it look. And if anybody had actually been around to see it, they would of told him that it _hadn’t_ looked easy and he was a massive loser.

Niall looked up from the bar, where he had been hunched over books and sheets of paper - that all held his signature chicken scratch etched across them. His eyes looked intently interested - in a way that startled Harry, because he wasn’t sure what he had done recently that would warrant such an expression. “Hey,” he greeted and started his way towards the hallway. He paused though, when Niall continued to stare at him expectantly. “ _Alright?_ ”

"Ya, uh huh," Niall nodded uncommitted, and turned back to his work.

Harry stood there for a few more seconds, watching the back of Niall’s head bob in thought - just in case he came up with something to say, or decided to divulge whatever happened to be on his mind. But when he didn’t, Harry started back down the hallway and into his room, where he deposited his basket on the surface of his bed.

Clothes. _Clean_ clothes.

Harry had spent four hours doing his washing - _all_ of the dirty Depression Piles gone from his floor. There was a strong feeling of pride and a strong release off of his chest, at the fact that he’d somehow managed to accomplish the feet. He wouldn’t have to wear the same pair of jeans over and over, anymore. Although, he had started to grow rather fond of the pair he’d been wearing. They felt like an old friend. A glance around his room brought a smile to his face - everything looked right normal. Before all of the things that had went wrong in his life Harry hadn’t been that big of a slob. And he hadn’t been a person to forgo basic personal hygiene. So, the bare floor staring back up at him felt like an important step in the return to his normal self.

Harry had just started to place his folded shirts into empty drawers, when he noticed that Niall’s form had popped up in his doorway. He jumped briefly and tried to go back to what he was doing with a slightly bothered grimace on his face. Niall knew Harry didn’t really like to be snuck up on, so (of course) he took every opportunity to do it. “Niall, what _is_ it?”

"I saw Zayn and ya at El’s party," Niall’s constant good-natured buzz had him naturally bouncing on the balls of his feet. "'dis is _good_. I like it.”

"What’s good, exactly?"

Niall was shaking his head back and forth, but he didn’t look bothered by Harry’s inability to grasp things right away, “Don’t ya make dis diff’cult.”

"…. I saw you and Leigh-Anne getting _far_ busier than me and Zayn.” Niall did blush at that, the red flush running up the length of his neck and around the plump of his cheeks.

But, Niall just smiled a toothy smile and let his eyes wander over the clear floor and empty walls, which only had pictures of him, Niall, and his family back home. “It’s nice ta see dat I made da cut,” was all that Niall said, before he waved a quick hand goodbye and turned around to head back down the hall and back to his homework. Harry called out the obvious and expected _'Of course you did'_ to his friend’s retreating form and threw his last shirt into it’s resting place. Glancing towards the wall, Harry strode over to his desk to sort through the photos he’d recently printed, before he’d started in on the piles. He quickly found the one he wanted, grabbed a tack, and stuck it up in an appropriate place.

He looked up to observe the picture of him and Eleanor - her smiling wide eyed and maybe a bit drunk, and him doing his best to keep up with her infectious personality. She had said Zayn liked him. And despite his cloudy haze, he was pretty sure Zayn had mimicked that sentiment, whilst Harry was having another mini panic attack (which he had come to deem a normal occurrence now-a-days).

And he liked guys.

But he wasn’t Mark James. He wasn’t (for who knew how long) sleeping with Louis Tomlinson behind his back. And unlike like Mark James, _Zayn Malik_ wasn’t actively trying to make him miserable. His face was just accidently doing all of that work for him.

And those were all good traits.

~~~

The store was fairly quiet, with quite a few students milling around - aching backs bent over tables, studying, reading, and (on some occasions) just mucking about. It was strange when _Book Ends_ turned into a feeding ground for desperate students trying to soak in the last bit of knowledge, before they had to put it to the test. This was the first time Harry had experienced the bulk of people, but Meg had been working at the store since she started her first year of school. She weaved herself around the store, doing her normal routines and chatting to anyone she happened to know.

Harry was sat behind the counter, ringing purchases up whenever someone stepped up in front of him. But, he was spending the majority of his time going through applications to stock student books. There was more than usual with the term soon ending - and Harry supposed that most of them came from Literature students hoping to be the next J.R.R. Tolkien. The applications were long and drawn out, for the most part. With complicated descriptions - _paragraphs_ long - of the deeper meanings and the reasons and _reasons_ why it would be good to sell. Harry had started to get rather bored pretty early in, as he always did when he was set to the job. And he often found himself wondering why Gary continued to put so much trust in them. And where _was_ Gary, during such a busy time for the store? He always seemed to disappear whenever there was any actual work.

He didn’t see the point of any of it - the descriptions. He’d always been more of a ‘see and feel’ sort-of person. For some reason, the more that the letters went on about the contents the books held and how amazing it was - the less interested Harry became. He let the pen he was holding, bounce lazily between the tips of two fingers, trying to decide if a book about a boy heading out to Uni for the first time with a Demon Pet Sloth was as _ridiculously stupid_ , as _he_ thought it was. Definitely. _Most_ definitely. Nothing about that plot made any sense, and not in the good way that things don’t add up. Harry stilled his pen, placed the tip against the page, stuck it off the list, and placed it in Meg’s discard box.

"Look _more_ appalled,” Meg chortled and dropped a couple misplaced books on the counter next to him. “Yeah, they can get pretty awful.” He didn’t really understand how it was possible that so many English majors, could be such bad writers.

"… It just doesn’t make sense."

"Yeah, well," Meg sank the points of her elbows down onto the surface of the counter and settled her chin in the palm of one hand. "Just because you’re majoring in something, doesn’t mean you actually have the talent for it."

Harry blindly reached his free hand into the box holding unopened request letters, while watching Meg shrug her shoulder. “Gary puts too much trust in us, anyways,” she spoke mimicking his earlier thoughts and she laughed at Harry’s confirming nod. “I mean, I’m studying _Accounting_.”

"I still think that’s weird," he mumbled, but there was a hint of a smile on the edges of his lips. His fingers finally gripped at another letter and he tugged it out of the box and set it on the counter without looking - keeping his attention on the bleach blonde in front of him.

Meg’s head tittered in her hand, “You have more weird in your pinkie, than I do in my entire body, babes. I’m just grateful _you’re_ dealing with them today, instead of me. Anyway - do you know where the inventory list is?”

"Gary’s office, last I saw," Harry waved in the right direction (even though he was more than aware that she knew where to go) and stuck his finger under the envelope flap - and started to rip it open. Harry groaned internally and did his best to not pre-judge.

~~~

Four hours (and a lot of request letters and clean ups [which he didn’t even want to talk about, because who knew a book store could be so dirty]) later, Harry dragged himself off of the stool he’d been sitting on and through the backroom door to collect his things - when his phone sounded from his back pocket. When he pulled it out, Niall’s name was etched across the screen, so he pressed talk without any of his normal hesitation that he had for anyother random caller. “Niall?” he started, while setting a cap onto his head - the brim facing backwards, because he was just _so_ cool like that.

"Will ya do somth’n for me?" the voice on the other end sounded loudly through Harry’s ear. He could hear the energetic sound of music in the background and the shrill voice of tipsy people attempting to shout over the noise.

"Where are you?" he shoved one hand through the arm of his brown coat and then the other. "… And yes I can."

"I’m at da pub wit Keith!" Harry looked back through the door, across the store, and out the front windows. It was a long sight, but he could make out the bare branches of trees whipping violently in the wind and chunks - not flutters, but chunks - of snow winding themselves around every living creature. Christmas Break was coming up soon - and Harry hadn’t ever been so excited to see his mum. She’d act concerned when he got there, of course. But it wouldn’t be surprising seeing as he had broke earlier in the year. Honestly - he couldn’t wait for such a friendly, albeit cautious, face. Niall’s slightly drunken tone sounded back through his ear - and without even being there, Harry knew he’d only had a few. "I lent Liam me notes from one of our classes dat he missed! Ya still der, Harry?"

"Yes, I am."

"And he said I could get ‘em _today_ , but I never got around ta it! His flat’s on your way home - could ya-“

The only thing flashing through Harry’s mind was that Liam lived with _Zayn_ \- and he wasn’t sure that he looked well enough - had put in enough effort stylistically - to maybe, possibly, be in that person’s presence. But, Harry did things that Niall needed him to, and vice-versa. In fact, he was a bit concerned at how easily they went along with each other’s plans and schemes. As demonstrated in half of the things they’d done with each other since they’d first met. When they were younger, they’d spent a lot of time grounded from going outside, by their annoyed and disgruntled parents. “… Text me the address,” he interrupted with a sigh he knew wasn’t real, and pulled his scarf off of the hook to wrap it around his neck.

"Great, mate! Thanks! Alright I’ll let ya go!" Harry mumbled something that wasn’t a real response, but Niall knew him better than anyone and just laughed at him rambunctiously before Harry heard the click of an ended call. A few seconds later, his phone dinged again and a series of numbers stared back at him. Harry’s thoughts flew to a few weeks back, when Zayn asked him if they could walk together. He’d passed up his own home, which was news to Harry. Zayn had decided to keep walking, despite the fact that the person next to him was on the verge of tears. It was…. a thought. One Harry decided to deal with later.

"I’ll see you tomorrow, Meg," he hummed - still lost in his own head over the fact that Zayn was…. just confusing. Really fucking confusing. He gave her a half hug and a kiss to the cheek, because - well - he needed all of the friends he could get. And later on in life, he’d have someone who would be able to help him with his taxes. So, all around it was a plus.

~~~

As he started his way down the street, through the cold, through the snow, and through the wind, he realised just _how much farther_ Zayn had walked, than he needed to. Harry had only been walking for a couple of minutes (they were actually quite long minutes - when he thought about the lack of feeling in his ears) when he arrived at the correct street. He pushed his way past a few buildings, before checking for the address on his phone, once more, and walking up to the right steps. Harry stood outside the front door - feeling his hair whip against his ears with the wind - and became suddenly self conscious of the snot building up in the back of his nose. He _couldn’t_ be more attractive, if he tried. And honestly he was spending his final moments before pressing the correct buzzer that read “Payne/Malik”, praying to God that Zayn wouldn’t be home to see it. A voice startled him out of his anxiety - static and surprised, “Hello?”

It wasn’t Zayn, Harry was more than positive of that. So, he breathed a small sigh of relief - which probably couldn’t be heard over the weather - and lent closer into the speaker to press talk. “Hey, Liam? It’s Harry… Harry Styles… I’m here to get Niall’s notes,” he spoke as clearly as he could, before letting go of the button. There had been a brief moment during his sentence where he thought that Liam might of forgotten who he was. But, Harry couldn’t possibly have become that pathetic. That unmemorable.

"Oh, _hey_ mate!” Liam’s cheerful tone sang out, again. “Come on up. Second floor, third door.”

He waited for the buzzer to go off, sounding that the front door had been unlocked, and then pushed through into a warm hallway - which he was incredibly grateful for. Harry hesitated for a moment, before starting his way up the stairwell - trying to wipe at his nose with the back of his hand and shake the melting snow out of the locks of his hair. Yes. Very attractive.

There was nothing very extraordinary about their flat door. Just plain dark wood, with a peep hole, and a handle. But, of course, despite all of those things Harry felt his chest constrict, as it did whenever Zayn could even _possibly_ be near. He reached out a hand and cautiously knocked a closed fist three times against the door. A few seconds later, it was swung open and Liam was smiling (like he does) and ushering him inside. “Let me grab the notebook,” was how Liam greeted him and then waved a hand in the direction of the couch - which Harry looked back in the direction of. “Have a seat. That’s Dani, by the way.”

Harry watched Liam bound down a hallway, presumably to his room, and turned to sit near (but not close) to a pretty girl with shockingly curly hair - much much larger than his own. He’d seen her from far away at the party last weekend, but he’d never seen her up close. “Hi, I’m… Harry,” he introduced himself, awkwardly, with a half hearted wave and forced crooked smile.

"I know, yeah. I’m Danielle." Dani’s smile was largely confident - and there was something intimidating about that. Why was it that everyone Harry had ever met was so attractive? It made him uncomfortable and self conscious and he… He wasn’t sure when it had started to bother him, but it had. There was a time when Harry wouldn’t of thought he was half bad himself, but… it wasn’t necessarily his current state of mind. He liked to pretend that it wasn’t because Mark had made him feel like a lumpy bag of shit, but it more than likely was. "How have you been?" Danielle was asking, with a tip of her head - and it was a odd question that suggested a familiarity with him, that they didn’t actually have. "I saw you at Elly’s party," she continued on, with as helpful of a tone, as she could manage, without looking down on him.

And, yes. He knew that she was there and he was there, but it still didn’t say much. “I… okay.” Harry took a moment to observe the room, which was a bit of a mess if the truth be told. But it was a _lived in mess_ , that suggested how comfortable Liam and Zayn were with each other and their personal environment. It was nice and bright - and there were a few objects scattered here and there that were most definitely Zayn’s. A worn leather jacket hung over the arm of a rich navy blue chair. The books scattered across the coffee table (one that Harry was more than positive he had sold to him). A used ashtray _filled_ with ash and stumped butts. He hadn’t seen Zayn smoke very often (only a few… memorable times), but he must of done it much more than Harry originally thought. Danielle was piling her massive lump of hair into a poorly constructed bun on top of her head, and staring at him with her eyebrows raised. “How have _you_ been?” he asked after much delay and obligation - completely forgetting to even answer her question. She seemed kind, though. And Liam (who was always nice to Harry) clearly enjoyed her company, so he tacked on a genuine enough smile.

"I’ve been pretty good, thanks," she hummed lightly and looked expectantly over towards the hall, where Liam hadn’t returned yet. And why he hadn’t, Harry wasn’t quite sure, but he hadn’t really been expecting to sit around with someone he didn’t know. Hadn’t mentally prepared for it. After another minute or two of unsure silence, Liam’s form finally returned with a notebook in hand - and he was followed by the person Harry’d been hoping wasn’t home. Zayn looked quite tired. His hair wasn’t done in it’s normal fashion - instead flopped down over his forehead and sticking out a little in various directions. He was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt. But what Harry really noticed was a pair of black, thick rimmed glasses sat on the crook of his nose. A glance at the clock under the telly said that it was going on eleven thirty, so Harry assumed that he’d been asleep.

"Hi," Zayn coughed lightly - his voice rough with sleep - but eyes intent on his face and focused on him.

Harry’s chest stuttered for a few seconds at the grainy tone and he wished there was a way to take a photo of it and hang it up on his bedroom wall, before muttering a _‘hello'_ in return. Harry didn't see Liam look between him and Zayn and over to Danielle to smile knowingly, but he _did_ see Liam wave a hand out to pass the notebook over to him, “There you are. They really helped.”

Harry pulled his gaze away from Zayn (which he hadn’t actually realised he’d been focused on) to respond, “I don’t really know what class it was for… but great.” Liam’s following chuckle reassured him a bit and he felt more comfortable when he pulled himself out of his seat and adjusted the scarf around his neck - to prepare to head back out into the cold. Liam was throwing himself back down next to Danielle and Harry was just about to say goodbye, when Zayn stepped two socked feet forward.

"Do you want to watch a film, or something?" He asked, tiredly and with a small yawn that suggested it wasn’t a great idea, because there was an excellent chance that Zayn would fall asleep on him. And then there was the fact that being in Liam and Zayn’s flat was making him nervous for no good reason. But there he was with SleepyZayn (who’s tired eyes watched Harry almost… _hopefully?_ ), and it was a right good sight to see.

So, without thinking much about it - Harry nodded numbly and muttered an unconfident, “Sure… yeah why not?”

Liam let out a small breathy laugh, somewhere to Harry’s right. But, he wasn’t sure what exactly Niall’s friend was on about - and gathered it down to something that Danielle had said, seeing as they had gone back to the program they had been watching before Harry had even shown up. A quick flick of his eyes revealed ‘The Great British Bake Off’. “Hey, follow me,” Zayn’s voice sounded and he turned around to head back down the hallway. They passed a few doors on the way - one closed and another open, which held the bathroom. And then, they were walking through the third open door on the opposite wall and into Zayn’s room. Zayn’s bedroom. The room where Zayn slept. And changed. And wrote. And did a lot of other things, that Harry couldn’t really think of at the moment, because he’d never expected to be in this situation. “What are you feeling like? And you can throw your coat and such on the desk chair,” Zayn asked him closing the door behind them, walking over and squatting down to the last couple shelves of a bookcase - that held a variety of DVD’s. Harry pulled his coat, scarf, and hat off to put them where he’d been told - and placed his shoes underneath the chair. “If I’ve got nothing you’d like - we can stream something to the tv.”

Harry meant to respond right away (being a bit annoyed with himself at constantly seeming as slow as his voice), but he’d accidentally gotten caught up with observing his new surroundings. Zayn’s walls were a burnt orange-ish color and there wasn’t much on three of them. But the third held a giant cork board, littered with pages full of handwritten words. His desk was neat, for the average Uni student, but all of his pens were shoved in a cup that was covered in flowery drawings and a messy scrawled ‘Love you brother! Write a book I’d _actually_ read.’ There were colored plastic storage boxes next to the desk (a lot of them) which were all holding books. Each box was labeled with a feeling of some sort (‘For When I’m Sad’, ‘Love’, ‘To Feel Inspired’, ‘The Greats’, ‘Reminds Me of Home’), and then there was one that was simply marked ‘H’. Which, as per usual, Harry didn’t really understand. “I’m good with pretty much anything,” he said over to Zayn - who was looking overly serious about his choice - before going back to looking around. The white comforter on the bed was rumpled and in complete disarray, which confirmed his suspicions that Zayn had actually been asleep when he’d arrived. If Harry was being honest, when he’d first seen him, Zayn hadn’t really looked like he _wanted_ to be awake, but was making some sort-of extra effort that Harry hadn’t grasped, yet.

"Yeah, okay. I’ll just decide by myself," he heard a box being snapped open and the sound of a DVD player tray buzzing alive.

Harry turned to the right to look over the beside table and at that point he’d realised and remembered what a bad snoop he was. There was a stack of crisp white papers, printed out and stapled together at the edges - and next to it was a cover page that Zayn had yet to attach. It was the book he’d told Harry about - the one he had to turn in for his grade. Despite knowing from Eleanor (and Zayn himself) that Zayn was iffy about people reading his work, Harry glanced down to scan the first page.

 

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>                                                                                        ”We Take Photographs”
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> "With a camera dangled around his neck at all times - flat against the stomach of some wild sort-of jumper, there was something…. _familiar_ about the look in his eyes and the deflated demeanor that seemed to have become a part of him, like a barnacle gripping desperately onto the side of a boat. I just hadn’t determined what that was, yet. I’d been waiting since we’d first spoken (however slight it had been), to see him snap a photo of something. _Anything_. But he never did - protective and closed off in his own personal way. I supposed it was like my own writing. A remembrance. Like I remembered certain things I’d seen or heard being said around me - my whole life - so that I could write them down later. Turn it into something that was, hopefully, as beautiful as it was floating in the spaces of my head. There were just… _things_ about him (which didn’t have anything to do with looks, although those were nothing to be complaining about), and it was frustrating and _lovely_ trying to learn what they were. But those were the best parts - trying to search out who he was and implementing myself into his life. Because, I had to.”

The sound of the start menu rang somewhere in his head, but Harry’s mind had started spinning somewhere in the middle of the first sentence, because…. Zayn. _Zayn Malik_. Unless Harry was just shockingly narcissistic - which he wasn’t - what he’d just read was about _him_. Harry. HimHarry. Zayn’s book was about him, just like the gallery he was working on was about Zayn. And that was just… he couldn’t really breathe, again. Harry tore his eyes from the page, feeling guilty that he’d taken a look, and turned around just in time to see Zayn rising from where he’d just pressed play. “Have you seen Skyfall, yet?” he questioned, with a quirk in his eyebrow, while Adele’s voice started softly. Harry hadn’t yet regained his full consciousness, so he attempted to spew out a sentence about how he’d seen bits and pieces of it (because Niall wanted to become an Irish James Bond), but not the whole thing. But, the slightly amused expression on Zayn’s face read that it hadn’t come out quite as elegantly, as he’d intended.

Then he watched him climb back into his bed, and mess with the covers so that Harry could comfortably fit in, too. Zayn rested his head back against the headboard - the line of his neck stretching out some - which looked lovely and much like a picture he’d never take.

He’d written about Harry.

Zayn had told him (on the day that Harry had ripped Mark’s very presence off his walls) that he was having a hard time saying what he wanted to - a hard time describing things right. And apparently, he’d had a hard time describing _Harry_. _And_ his ‘wild sort-of jumpers’.

Harry didn’t say much, whilst he climbed onto the bed - the mattress dipping down underneath his weight. Instead he made it to the spot intended for him… and pushed just a little further past that - to place the flat of his hand on the side of Zayn’s neck and pull them both together. The second time Harry kissed Zayn, there was no taste of alcohol. There was no thumping base and grinding scantily clad bodies surrounding him to make his temples thud violently against his skull. There was no worry of if PreyingMantusLeigh-Anne was intending to eat his best friend. There was just his lips pressed firmly against Zayn’s.

Zayn had said him that night at Eleanor’s party (after he’d surprised Harry with a kiss of his own), that he wanted to do this whenever Harry felt ready to - if he even wanted to. And with the unbound book off to his right (the book Zayn had struggled over just as Harry had been struggling over his photos), he forgot all about Mark and Mark fucking Louis and Unhappy and Sad. He just thought about the fact that he could feel the stretch of Zayn’s smile against his own mouth and the other boy reaching up to actively participate in Harry’s suddenly suggested activity. He pressed his kiss more securely into Zayn, then, his body falling slightly over the smaller frame. And Zayn _did_ look frail under the broad of his body, just like Harry thought he would. Zayn felt soft and warm and the tiny puffs of breath brushing across the apple of his cheek made him want to jump out of the window. But not really, because then he’d be gone. And he’d not be near _Zayn_. Or the thumb gently running along the line of his jaw. Or the tongue that Zayn was lazily running along his lower lip. And really… where would the fun be in that?

Harry didn’t need much coaxing from the boy sat beneath him, allowing Zayn inside to slide against his own tongue. And yeah. It was pretty good. Decent work. If you liked that sort-of thing.

They sat there for a few minutes, Zayn eventually pushing Harry backwards and settling a knee between his thighs, before they both pulled properly back for the first time since they’d initially began. Zayn laughed his HarryLaugh and dropped his head against his own heaving chest for a few seconds, before pulling his body up and sitting back on his ankles to give Harry a once over. “Alright?” he smiled (eyes crinkling a little in the corners) and Harry shrank self-consciously at his obviously flushed face.

He honestly wasn’t this person. “… Yeah,” was all he could manage to say - and his face filled red, all over again.

"Good," Zayn gave a closed lips smile - that was still incredibly endearing and reached out a hand for Harry, to pull him back up into a seated position. A hazy once over of _Zayn_ , and Harry observed that (while darkened from their activity) his hazel eyes were still droopy from earlier pulling himself out of bed. So, Harry bent his head over to shake out his wonky hair and crawled (as manly, as he could manage in his condition) towards the spot that had initially been made for him and settled himself to face the screen. Zayn adjusted his glasses, which had been knocked around a bit, and actively tried to stop the smile (and probably a yawn, too) that was etched across his face. Harry didn’t think it worked all that well, but he found it was fascinating to watch out of the corner of his eye.

Nothing happening on the screen made any sense, because (for like the fifth time) he’d missed the entire beginning sequence. But, all in all, he wasn’t too upset. Or upset at all. Harry felt light for the first time in awhile and some time later, when he looked to his right to make a comment about Q, Zayn’s head was titled to the side, his eyes shut (lashes fluttered against skin), and mouth dropped slightly open.

He watched the rise and fall of Zayn’s chest for a few minutes and scanned Zayn’s face for the first time without a nervous edge guiding his decisions. He was enraptured at the sight of Zayn’s parted lips - they looked even fuller from his higher angle. He turned back towards the movie to think for a few moments, before making up his mind.

Harry scooted towards the edge of the bed, with as little movement as he could manage, and stretched out an arm to reach his things. It took a few failed attempts, but after awhile, his fingers made contact with the strap and he pulled his camera towards him. After turning it on and adjusting the features to suit the environment - Harry lifted the camera up to his face and looked through the eye hole to center the picture how he wanted it. Zayn looked peaceful and calm in a way he didn’t when he was awake. Not that something was wrong with him awake and wandering the store - that was a different sort-of peaceful. Still unconsciously guarded. His normally sharp features seemed to soften, slightly, when he wasn’t alert to wonder about how he looked, or whatnot. He just seemed very…. Harry couldn’t describe it - unused to showing how he felt with words and not images.

What he _really_ wanted was Zayn crinkly eyed and wide smiled, but for now (just in case he never got another chance) it would do. Harry took a few small breaths, crooked the corner of his lip into something of a smile, and snapped the photo he’d been waiting for.

~~~

“ _Fucking_ , I just-,” Zayn swore under his breath, and used the spatula in his left hand to scrape out his second failed attempt at a simple egg into the bin. He had felt Liam creep up behind him and lean back against the counter to watch his process, but chose not to turn and acknowledge his friend’s presence, while he was acting like such a knob.

Zayn padded over to the fridge to retrieve the carton of eggs for the third time, when Liam finally spoke up. “ _What_ are you doing, mate?” he started, with a laugh that Zayn did not appreciate one bit. He _never_ poked (much) fun when it came to Danielle and all the psychotic ups and downs of that relationship, so he’d prefer to be left alone in his time of crisis.

Liam had come bounding into his room the night before, which Zayn hadn’t noticed, because he was as deep of a sleeper as one could be. But he _did_ notice Liam roughly kick at the side of his bed five times and lean down to smack lightly at the side of his face. When Zayn finally dragged his eyes open unhappily and began his long winded rant filled with a plentiful of words he’d never utter around his mother, Liam had just cracked a wicked smirk and simply said _'I just thought you'd might want to know that_ ** _He’s_** _here’._

He would never admit outloud just how quickly he had pulled himself out from under his covers. Although, his super speed was still more than likely slower than everybody else’s, because he liked his sleep _god dammit_. And Liam had laughed at him for tangling his feet in the end of the blankets and almost slicing his head in half on his desk chair. Zayn wasn’t sure how him almost bashing his head straight open was entertaining, but he had been too busy trying to find his glasses (because he’s so fucking blind - and he would _not_ miss seeing Harry in his own environment) and straightening out his rumpled t-shirt, to care. When Liam finally agreed that he didn’t look like _complete_ shit, they’d walked out of his room and down the hall, to see Harry sat on the couch with Dani, looking uncomfortable. But trying. His hair was squashed under a green cap, that looked like one of Niall’s, and his cheeks were red from the frost outside. And he looked so good that Zayn just wanted to shoot himself in his face, because Harry didn’t even try. At _all_. He just _looked_ like that. _All of the time_. Zayn found it incredibly frustrating that Harry had ever gotten a job at a place he frequently visited, because he wasn’t used to feeling this frazzled. Or, honestly, being this interested for as long as he was - without getting any physical action out of it. And now he knew what it was like to _kiss_ him. And he knew what it was like to have him held under him, flushed and wide eyed. Although, he’d also been reacquainted with the palm of his own hand ( _very_ reacquainted)… and that was a different sort-of frustrating that he didn’t want to talk about. 

But, Harry had inspired him in a way Perrie (and anyone else) hadn’t. Sure he’d written for people before - for boyfriends - for girlfriends - family - he’d written for _her_. But, his story _for_ Harry wasn’t _for_ Harry. It was for _himself_ \- and that seemed very selfish on the surface, but Zayn found something beautiful about it.

So, basically he’d somehow turned into the people he unintentionally grew tired of, in relationships. Despite the fact that he wasn’t actually _in_ one. So, yeah. Frazzled.

Zayn adjusted the glasses settled on his face and ran a hand through his undone hair, to sweep it up and out of his eyes. A physical representation of rolling his thoughts to the side, because thinking about _anything_ was how he ruined the last egg. “Exactly what does it look like?” he muttered in concentration, as he cracked an egg against the side of the pan. “ _Nooo_ ,” Zayn groaned once more, and reached quickly for the spatula, so that he could get rid of the shells that had made their way to where they shouldn’t of.

"I’ve never seen you make anything… except for toast. Once."

"Yeah well," he fixed Liam with a look, because he was getting pretty tired of his ‘thing’ for Harry Styles, being used for his friend’s entertainment - and the other boy knew it - liked that Zayn was finally getting riled up about another living being, again. Loved Liam or not, he felt self-conscious enough about himself in the situation, as it was. "Harry never left last night. _No_. Not _that_ ,” he faltered when Liam jokingly pumped a closed fist into the air and then chose to ignore the comment about Liam joking, because the walls were thin enough to of known if they had. “He’s asleep, like, in my _bed_. And I’m trying to make an impression of sorts.” The egg in his pan was browning in a way Zayn had never seen before, so he swirled back around to Liam in a cool desperation. Which wasn’t as cool, as he would of liked. “ _Help_ me.”

Liam dropped the joke (because they really _were_ friends), shoved up the sleeves of his hoodie, and nudged Zayn a little to the right, “Let’s get rid of this bit.” He switched off the stove and slid the egg into the bin, right along next to Zayn’s two others. “The butter’s burnt. That’s part of the problem,” Liam removed the pan and went to place it in the bottom of the sink, while Zayn reached in the bottom cabinet to get a fresh one.

"Butter can burn?"

"Yes," Liam cut a piece off the stick and plopped it in the fresh cookware. He watched it melt slowly and pointed out that Zayn shouldn’t put the flame up so high. "Crack the eggs, but not too hard - or you’ll get the shells, again." Zayn followed his instructions, although he did manage to get in a few pieces - which had him sighing for what felt like the millionth time since he’d woken up.

"I should of ordered something in."

"For _breakfast?_ Nah,” Liam helped him fry up the eggs - without actually doing any of the actions himself. He’d said that when Zayn mentioned he’d made Harry something to eat for breakfast, it was probably better if _Zayn_ made Harry something to eat for breakfast. And that was as good of logic as anything, so he did his best not to completely fuck it up. Liam watched him (with wide, entertained eyes) try and transport his product to the plates without dropping anything to the floor. A balancing act that could of made it into the circus. “You don’t have to be _worrying_ like this,” Liam threw the bread over when Zayn pointed at it. “We all know he likes you - _Niall_ wouldn’t of let you carry on if he thought you had no chance.”

"Niall never said that he liked me, although Harry… No, never mind."

"No no! Harry, what?"

Zayn ducked his chin into the crook of his neck, as he stuck a few pieces of the bread into the slots of the toaster. “He did kiss _me_ last night. Which is, like, progress. You know?”

Liam laughed loudly, shook his head, and toned it down with a shrug when Zayn shushed him and pointed a thumb down the hallway. “So, it’s _obvious_ he’s got a thing for you - he _snogged_ you - and you’ve bought more books than even I knew you could be interested in. Seriously, if Trisha calls one more time and says that you need to calm down on spending your dad’s money-“

"Educational purchases."

"-Sure, educational in the study of the face of the fit bloke behind the counter." He fixed Liam with an annoyed glare and yanked the silverware drawer open harder than necessary. "Okay, _okay_. Fall in love at your own pace. See if I care.” Zayn flushed at ‘fall in love’, because he didn’t actually know much about Harry, other than what he’d managed to piece together on his own. But life not to do with Mark James, was something else entirely. And they hadn’t had a chance to talk like he’d wanted to, because Harry was quiet enough and Zayn was just a Recluse. “I’m going on my run now,” Liam’s voice cut through his wish list.

"It’s _snowing_.”

His friend only shrugged, shoved his shoes onto his feet, and pulled his scarf on around the neck of his hoodie. Zayn didn’t understand people who ran around in cold weather without a coat on, but Zayn didn’t really like _going_ outside - so he supposed he wasn’t actually qualified to say anything. Liam smiled wide in silent good luck, and then tilted his head towards the counter before heading towards the door, “Your toast is burning, by the way.”

Zayn spun around as quickly as he could, and pulled the charcol’d slices out to throw them annoyingly onto the plates, “Shit.”

~~~

Harry stretched out the length of his legs and frowned slightly at the feel of the blanket thrown over his shoulders and the smell of the pillow his nose was buried into. None of which were his.

With a roll of his shoulders, he attempted to pull his eyes open - squinting unhappily at the light seeping through the window. After a few moments, though, he adjusted to the bright and was able to look around at _orange_ walls, _white_ blankets, and piles of _books_. Pulling himself up, he used a closed fist to rub the sleep out of the corners of his eyes and yawned tiredly. He couldn’t remember having fallen asleep during the movie, and when he looked to his right - he saw that he was alone.

Harry was just trying to pat his hair down, when he noticed a smell drifting through the underside of Zayn’s bedroom door. So, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and fixed the hem of his jumper, which had risen in his sleep. Before he started towards the door - his attention was drawn to the flashing light on his phone (which was sat on top of his coat). _'Luckily I don't need me notes til Monday'_ Niall’s text read - and Harry felt a bit bad. But when he remembered that he hadn’t dreamt actually kissing Zayn (like he had dreamt it before), his guilty conscious diminished somewhat.

But that didn’t stop Harry from being _Harry_ \- and stopping just shy of grabbing the door handle to leave the room. _He’d kissed Zayn_. He’d kissed Zayn. And Zayn had spent a few _months_ writing about Harry, and he was pretty sure that he wasn’t supposed to know that, but he _did_ and it was fairly overwhelming.

Taking a few breaths to calm his thoughts down, he pulled the door open and stuck his head out into the hallway.

All of the doors lining the hall were wide open and when he looked down the way, he could see the natural light of the morning lighting up the living room. The clink of a plate echoed from the doorway just off the front room, so Harry guided his feet in the direction of the noise. When he got there, Zayn stood in front of him - bent over a coffee machine, pouring water into the back compartment. He looked…. cute - all rumpled and casual. Cute didn’t seem like a word Harry would of ever used to describe Zayn’s sharp angles, but he did. It suited him - an interesting contrast. Even in his most at ease state, Harry had never seen Zayn so un-kempt - and he found the change appealing and… secretive, like not many other people have ever seen him (stylistically) so exposed. Zayn’s body language read a bit on the other side of the scale. The broad of his shoulders seemed tense, with the simple activity. But, the smell (which wasn’t overtly overbearing, but was certainly present) of burnt _something_ , suggested that he’d been at work for awhile. “You made food?” Harry questioned, choking a little on his first morning words - used to not saying anything that early unless a Professor was forcing it out of him.

Zayn’s body startled and he swirled socked feet around to face Harry, with a surprised look plastered to his face. He was cool, though. Experienced in schooling his expression. So, in little to no time, Zayn calmed himself down and shrugged his shoulders in a wave-like motion, “It’s just eggs and toast.”

Harry was used to cooking breakfast (when breakfast was being made). If he wanted something real and substantial, he had to make it himself. And then, he had to make enough for Niall - who was sure to scowl if he’d been put off in such a manner. If Harry didn’t have the energy to make something, he grabbed a granola bar or made a quick run to one of the mess halls. If Mark had stayed over the night before, he slept in until Harry would drag himself from underneath the covers to throw them something together. People didn’t make Harry breakfast. His mum would, if she was around or he was around (and Niall would worship at Anne’s feet, claiming she was far superior to Harry’s tacostacostacos). But other than her (who was obligated by the Mother Law of the Universe to take care of him), no one. Ever. But there was Zayn, looking straight at him and motioning Harry to the small yellow table in the corner of the kitchen. “This is brilliant,” he praised at Zayn, who grinned (almost to himself) as he was settling himself in the seat across - after standing oddly still, as if he was waiting for Harry to decide to take a seat instead of bolting out the front door.

"It’s nothing."

The table underneath Harry’s plate was a purposefully dull yellow, which looked like it had been hand painted by one of the people who lived in the flat. Liam or Zayn? He wasn’t exactly sure. But ontop of the yellow paint, were various drawings and sketches etched out in black marker. Really elaborate pieces with a comic effect that had Harry staring in wonder and happy confusion. There were also words written in the tight areas where space had become sparse. Random words or phrases - really random. Harry could see _‘L, get the toilet paper’_ here and _‘Fit Bird from Pete’s’_ along with her phone number, there. Cartoons that looked like Liam. The caricature of a young girl’s face whose features resembled Zayn’s, quite closely. Names of people that Harry didn’t know and (he spotted it quickly) the familiar chicken scratch that read out Niall’s name, with a smiley face.

Harry chuckled, internally, at the character of their home, before refocusing his attention on the plate in front of him. “Did you make this for me?” he asked Zayn awkwardly (he hoped not as much, as he thought). He received a ducked away look in response - and took that time to remember the smell. It was burnt eggs. He’d made this same meal more than once, that morning. “Do you make breakfast everyday?”

Zayn’s smile was small and he picked up his fork to go into his work. “Not really,” was his only answer - and when Zayn looked up at him, Harry decided that that look meant ‘yes, it _was_ for you’ and he flushed his signature ZaynFlush. Bright red.

It was nice, in a way, to have a weird bodily function that made itself known specially for the raven haired boy. Zayn could (and did whenever he happened to be around) make him flush at the quickest look or the slightest conversation. And Zayn had That Laugh, which Harry had deemed a good thing, as well. The night before, Harry had kissed the mouth that produced that laugh.

Something surged in the pit of Harry’s stomach, and he suddenly felt rather embarrassed. Not in the bad way, though, that he’d been in for the last few months. It was more of a ‘I should be kissing you all of the time. You have a sharp jaw. Photogenic. Soft. Fucking Beautiful. Lovely Angles. Smart. And you made me _food_. I like food. And, well, _Zayn_ sort of embarrassed. A good kind that made the inners of his mind want to float wildly without restraint. He liked this feeling.

Harry smiled widely at Zayn, then (dimples shining out and prominent), and raised his hands to tear off a piece of the toast to dip it into a crushed egg yolk. “Thank you,” he laughed jovially - and the responding crinkled eyes from Zayn had Harry flying all over again.

Harry looked away, then, and brought his fork down over his eggs to cut them into sectioned pieces. It was surreal to be sat with the person, who only a few months ago, Harry had silently watched stroll up and down the aisles, thumbing over books with lots of words… even if he did still do that. It was surreal to be _comfortable_ doing so. Well, as comfortable as he could be, when a large chunk of his attention span tended to be on trying to keep his cheeks from glowing red. But, Zayn didn’t seem to mind when Harry’s natural flow of oxygen was cut off from his brain and he found himself stumbling to verbally say what he was thinking. Perhaps he was actually most at ease when they were asleep. But not being at ease, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Harry’s mind wandered back to the book in Zayn’s bedroom - and he could feel the tips of his ears heating, as he took another bite. He chewed slowly, while he attempted to form a proper sentence. He watch Zayn run a hand along the side of his neck and squeeze once, before pushing himself over the ledge. “Is your book done?” he asked, despite the fact that he already knew the answer.

Zayn’s head started and he paused for a few seconds to scan his face. Contemplating something. He was always contemplating something. Harry set his fork back down to his plate with a clink and tried not to look as tired, as he probably did. In fact, he could practically feel the bags under his eyes and the fluff of his hair risen from sleep. “You’re cute, tired,” was what Zayn eventually said, with a small cornered grin. And… nope. That really didn’t make any sort-of sense. But, it was a compliment all the same and had Harry smiling (and blushing, god dammit) shyly. And he didn’t used to be shy, so it was an odd feeling. Harry was the guy who started peeling his clothes off in the middle of the street, because he was feeling claustrophobic. And Harry was the guy who (if he felt so inclined) was able to just lean over someone and kiss them square on the mouth, for a little bit of fun. At least he was. But Zayn. Zayn Malik.

_Shy._

He pulled himself from the inside of his mind to see Zayn pulling himself out of his chair and walking around the table, having made up his mind about whatever he’d been trying to decide. “The answer to that question, by the way, is ‘no’. I haven’t finished my book.” And _that_ didn’t make any sense, because Harry had seen the stack of papers the night before. He’d seen the words - the words about Harry - printed out on the sheets.

His brows scrunched in confusion and he titled his head up to look at Zayn who was now standing above him. Looking better than anybody should be able to look in the morning. “… No?”

He watched the boy shake his head to the side and huff out The Laugh. “No. I’ve only really got up to the things I like about you, from afar. Like, I haven’t gotten a chance to write the _deeper_ things.” And then he was leaning forward to cup his hands on the side of Harry’s face to guide them together. And, yes. He should definitely _always_ be kissing Zayn Malik. Harry tried his best to shuffle himself out of his seated position without breaking the contact and sighed into Zayn’s mouth, as a pair of arms wrapped around his waist to help pull him up. He chose to set aside the fact, for now, that Zayn seemed to magically know that Harry had read a little bit of the story.

He tilted his head to the right, to compliment Zayn’s movements, and groaned when the latter began to lightly (but pointedly) push him back against the wall behind them. He made contact with an _umf_ , which had his mouth dropping open and Zayn sliding his tongue inside. Harry was kissed slowly, then, with Zayn’s fingers gripped at his hips and one of his own hands fisted in the base of raven hair. There was a strange, but understandable, taste of eggs and bread - and if Harry didn’t like food (or the things Zayn’s tongue was doing with his) so much, he might of been put off. But he wasn’t. Not even in the slightest.

Harry’s focus shot straight down, when Zayn started to unconsciously grind his crotch into his own, and mewl in an incredibly appealing way. And the fact that Zayn didn’t seem to realise that he was doing it, made Harry want to die right there. He was just getting excited in that very special way (and thankfully he could feel Zayn getting excited against his thigh, as well) and trying not to gasp too loudly for breath, when Zayn broke away from him, buried his face into the side of Harry’s neck, and laughed in a rather bothered tone. “I have a _class_ ,” he groaned unhappily - his voice so very thick and warm - and let the tip of his tongue flick out of swollen lips to lick once (or twice) along a pulsing length of skin, and kissed unpurposefully just one time.

"Skip it," Harry breathed - and he cringed inwardly at how wanton he sounded. But, _fuck it_ , because he hadn’t done what he (suddenly so desperately) wanted to do with the boy in front of him, since he’d walked in on Mark doing it with Louis. And here was _Zayn_ \- someone who was both as fuck-able _and_ lovely, as a person could possibly get. And he was planting kisses along the edge of his jaw. And _ugh_. He _really_ wanted Zayn to stay.

Harry could feel the shake of Zayn’s head, though, and the warmth of his breath against his skin, “I’ve got a fucking exam.” He moved quite suddenly, from Harry’s body, leaving him both uncomfortably cold and flushed too hot - all at the same time. Harry watched Zayn stride blindly backwards, until his bum hit the edge of the counter and (Harry flushed deeper) attempted to subtly adjust himself underneath his sweats. Zayn took a few deep breaths and pushed underneath his glasses to run his hands over the front of his face, before walking towards him, once more, to press one small and barely there peck to his lips. He rested his forehead against Harry’s (with his eyes closed - and _god_ his eye lashes were unnaturally long) for a few moments. And Harry could swear he’d heard a mumbled ‘I’ve wanted to be this close to you, for so long’, but he, himself, was in such a haze - that he could of just fabricated what he wanted to hear. “We’ll do something later, yeah?” Zayn asked him, whilst playing with the curly strands of hair at the base of Harry’s neck.

Harry wasn’t sure what to do with himself - confused at how and why he’d switched so drastically from ‘Depressed and Destroyed’ to ‘I Love Your Face/Your Tongue Should Be Illegal/What Do You Look Like Naked/Let’s Have A Cuddle Party/You Could Fuck Me Over This Table And I’d Have No Objections’ from a simple glance at a few written words.

Niall would be so proud.

He mentally shook his head out and tried not to flutter his eyelashes like a twelve year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert - to mumble back, “Alright.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re so weird,” Zayn continued to laugh, but it was a quieter fonder sound than it had been, previously. Harry let his eyes droop closed, briefly, when Zayn’s lips brushed against the side of his cheek. Not a kiss, really, more an acknowledgment of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember when I last read this through, but I remember thinking it was ehhh. There's a smutty attempt in here, but I totally failed so... Anyway, here you are.

Harry continued to balance his weight on the two legs of his chair, as he thumbed over the buttons of his phone - trying to school the stupid smile trapped onto his face. Niall stood opposite him, fingering through the shelves for the next book he needed and tapping a mindless tune against the side of his thigh. “What’s da title of da book on da second page?” he asked backwards to Harry - who pulled his gaze from his screen to look up.

He hummed, confusingly, for a few seconds (not having registered the initial question), before nodding his head, letting his chair fall back to the ground with a _thump_ , and reaching out to grab Niall’s worksheet. “‘The Guitar and Amp Sourcebook: An Illustrated Collection of the Axes and Amps the _Rocked_ Our World’,” Harry read out off the page in his best Rock Star whisper (which earned him a few glares) and watched Niall stall, before walking further down the aisle to the appropriate letter of the alphabet.

The Library was full for the cold Tuesday morning. Students hunched over textbooks and notepads full of haphazardly written notes, trying their best to revise for their courses, before it was too late and they were doomed to fail. It was close to silent - no one speaking to the strangers next to them - and Harry could still hear the wind loudly whipping around heavy snow outside the stained glass windows. Christmas Holidays sat on everybodies minds - a small beacon of Hope and Prize, as long as they could make it through the last of this years’ work. Niall had only just remembered an essay he was supposed to write (which was terrible, even for him) about Classic Rock of the 1960’s. He’d been swamped with technical evaluations and all of his written had started to slip through the seams. So, Harry had shuffled all of his work into a large portfolio and any books he might need, if he chose to focus on his Literature Class (which he really didn’t want to), and followed Niall to one of the many on campus libraries to keep him company.

They had splurged on the money to call a cab - unwilling to walk through the terrible weather. Partially because Harry was carrying and organizing his small prints for his physical portfolio that he had to turn in to Professor Feyne. And if he won one of the studio shows, like he’d been hinted that he would, he’d focus on printing large versions later. It was hard to get scheduled time in the school dark rooms, so he was taking it one step at a time.

Harry dropped a photo back down to the table and grabbed for his flashing phone. He read the message in front of him and pushed his chair back up on it’s hind legs to think of an acceptable response. Even Zayn’s _texts_ seemed elegant (even if all of them ended with a smiley face and an ‘x’), and that was not something Harry was used to dealing with. He was used to texting out a plan of something to do (full fledged sentences) to Mark, and receiving one worded answers.

"I can’t wait ta go home," Niall plopped down across from him, holding a thick book with a colorful cover. "Me mum’s _cooking_ , been dyi’n wi’out it.”

Harry stared at his screen for a few more seconds, unsure of how to participate in a conversation about their everyday lives (because he couldn’t stutter over the phone - and wasn’t sure how being at the Library was interesting), before sighing uncertainly and placing his phone back on the table. “Are you going to go home, or you going home home? Ireland, home,” he whispered back, because sometimes Niall forgot when he was supposed to be quiet. And a Library was a prime example of that.

"I’m go’in ta me mum’s and den we’re go’in down ta Ireland, ta be wit everyone else."

"That will be good," Harry nodded shortly, knowing that Niall was bound to find a way to leave earlier than him - his exams likely to be over with. And Harry’d be left alone in their flat, with nothing to do but watch reruns of ‘The Year Without a Santa Claus’ and ‘The Island of Misfit Toys’ until it was time to catch the train ride home, to Holmes Chapel. Where his mum would be. And his step dad. And Gemma. And his old cat. And bed. And the clothes he’d forgotten to bring back with him from his last trip home. And he _honestly_ couldn’t wait to sit down at their kitchen table, again. Homemade holiday food.

And then there was the simple fact that Harry loved Christmas. He didn’t have a problem admitting that he became something of a child helping to put the tree up - securing ornaments and draping garland. And presents. He loved presents. Things to bring back to school with him, that would lighten up his and Niall’s home. Things that they had both strategically mentioned in phone calls home, so that maybe they could get a new microwave. Because, something unmentionable had somehow happened to their old one.

Harry flipped to the next page in his portfolio and slid in his last photograph - using the length of his fingers to try and straighten it out to the right angle. “I’ve just got’a knock dis paper out, den dere’s da exam t’morrow, and I’ll leave the next morn’n,” Niall was continuing on the conversation and running the tip of his pen along the lines of his paper. The mention of his leaving on Thursday morning surprised Harry a little bit - not aware he’d be so ready to leave. But Niall knew what Harry was going to ask before he did, and made to answer his question. “A lot of da finals were bumped up,” he shrugged carelessly. But, there was a glint in his blue eyes that implied he was gloating at his luck.

"Shove off," Harry responded grumpily - his shoulders shrunk in jealousy. But, he smiled at Niall, despite their childish attitudes and closed his cover with a thud. "I can’t wait to be done with this," he sighed and swept his hair off to the side.

"Ya know ya love it."

And Harry did love it. If he didn’t, he’d never of put in so much effort to scrounge up the money to be able to attend school. Or worked every extra hour he could at the bakery, to be able to buy the range of camera’s that he wanted. He’d never put himself through all he did, just to press the shutter button. Because, being a photographer was a far more emotional experience than most people assumed. And he knew the rollercoaster of emotions and unstable feelings would always be worth it, when he sat down and looked over the final images he produced.

Harry pulled his gaze away from Niall, who had gone back to hunching over his work a few minutes earlier, and reached back for the phone he’d set to the side. He pulled open the last message he’d received - and started to type out his response.

~~~

 

> Dear, Mr. H. Styles,
> 
> Based on your extraordinary work effort and art that you’ve produced in and for my class - I have chosen you, along with two of your fellow students, to display your work at Right Studios. Determined from the grading system I have applied and the subject matter you have photographed, your show will fill the main spot and have the most amount of available spaces.
> 
>                                                                                                                                                          Thank you and Congratulations,
> 
>                                                                                                                                                                               Professor B. Feyne.

~~~

Harry stared at the letter in his hands for a few more seconds, before carefully settling it down on the surface in front of him and granting himself a smile. He sat on the floor with his bare legs stretched out straight under the coffee table, the carpet a little harder under his bum than the cushions of the couch would be. But, he was closer to the air vents that way - and more likely to have the heat wash over him. He sat in a pair of black pants and nothing else, despite the fact that it was freezing outside. But, he’d cranked the heater up higher than he normally would - and the room’s air felt heavy and warm.

He’d won.

Yes, he’d been told two weeks in advance that he would be chosen. But, Harry had decided to not believe anything Feyne said. It wouldn’t of been the first time a Professor had lied to a student - lied to _him_ \- to get them to become more active and participant in a class project. But there it was - the letter confirming he’d get to have a real show. A real gallery. His photo’s would be hung up on a wall and people would get to look at them and admire something he’d created. His family would get to come down and people, like his sister, would see that he wasn’t wasting his own time and his parent’s money.

Maybe he could even get his actual dad to come out. He’d been helping his mum pay the tuition for school, but he’d had never really gotten a chance to see anything Harry’d made. The only times being when Harry gave him a photo for a Christmas present or something along those lines - and he’d put it up on the walls of the home he shared with his newest girlfriend as if _maybe_ he was proud of his son.

Harry let his head fall backwards and rest against the couch cushions he’d been leaning his back on. Niall had left the morning prior, just like he had said he would - so, Harry had no one to immediatly gloat to. Not that he’d _gloat_ _,_ per-se. But, a little dance with flailing arms and legs would of been acceptable. And Niall would of thrown his hands up, too - and gave him a large bear hug. Because, he understood. He _got_ it. Niall always got it.

His mind drifted to his family and how he should be able to tell them soon in person, after the train ride the next morning. He’d get to see the expressions on their faces when he informed them that _hey_ he was doing just _fine_. That they didn’t need to listen to Niall, who had a tendency to overreact (even though Harry knew everything Niall had told his mum on the side was the exact right amount of reaction and he should be lucky to have such a friend). That there’s nothing to worry about. Completely stable. Mildly sort-of-ish successful in his chosen field, if school accomplishments counted. _Fine_. But, when Harry looked over to the window leading outside - he watched the snow barrel down from the skies and frowned. It was so plentiful - that it looked like a white curtain hanging over the clearing, with no break to the naked eye. A message had scrolled along the bottom of the television screen earlier, as he was watching Christmas cartoons by himself (just like he knew he would), warning everyone of a possible snow storm. And if the vision outside his flat was anything to go by - a snow storm it was to be.

_bzzzzzz_

Harry rolled his head away from the window and over to look at the sudden sound the speaker box next to the front door was emitting, and scrunched his eyebrows in confusion.

He had no _friends_.

His only friend was in Ireland eating some sort-of Hash and being happy and comfortable.

Well, he had El (who’d texted a few times - pre-maturely inviting him to her next bash) and Meg. But neither of them had ever come over, before. He’d never invited them - and if they tried to find his home, they’d probably get lost. So they didn’t really count in this regard. Pulling his legs out from under the table, he dragged his body off the ground and walked the few feet necessary to press talk. “Hello?” he questioned simply and let go of the button, so that the stranger could respond.

"Harry? Let me up," a static voice attempted to push through, but the wind outside was strong and overbearing - drowning out any distinguishing features. They knew his name, though. So, he supposed it was fine to unlock the main door and throw himself down to the couch, to wait for whoever it was to knock.

They did a few minutes later (which seemed an awfully long time for the small amount of stairs they needed to climb) and Harry pulled the door open to find a windswept and red nosed Zayn, with a rolling suitcase handle tucked in one hand. “… Hi,” Harry greeted - startled at his sudden presence, and aware of his own lack of clothing.

"Hey," Zayn tried to smile, but the whole of his form was covered in thick clumps of white snow and his hair was blown out around the surface of his head, in odd angles. Harry stepped back a couple of paces to show that Zayn _was_ allowed in, and watched the latter try to dust off himself onto the mat. “Just wanted a quick bit of warm, before I had to re-brave the weather,” Zayn muttered and pulled his gloves off so that he could rub the palms of his hands together. He stilled for a second, with his hands still clasped, “I hope that’s alright?”

Harry nodded without a second thought and tried to deduce how he could get to his room and pull on a pair of trousers without Zayn noticing his retreat, “Of course.”

Zayn pulled his hands apart to run fingers through his hair. “I was heading home. Well, I was trying to, but the train’s not running in the storm, so…”

"It’ll be up tomorrow, though?" Harry asked with a hint of panic in his voice. And all images of going home and seeing his _mum_ and eating the food and putting together the tree and his old bed, swirled unhappily through his mind. Disappearing just like Zayn’s melting clumps of snow.

"I’m not sure. I really hope so, though. I actually _miss_ my sisters.”

The pair of them silently stood there for awhile. Harry scrunching his toes over and over in the carpet underneath his feet, wringing his fingers together, and trying to determine if Zayn was actually racking his eyes over his bare chest, or just… generally watching him. It was Zayn, though, so he probably could never be sure. But, the sound of the Snow Miser reminded Harry where he was. He forced his hands apart and gestured wavily to the screen instead. “I can make you something warm to drink…. if you’d want it?” he offered and scratched once at his wrist. A nervous tick of his. One of many.

_'Friends call me, Snow Miser. Whatever I touch - turns to snow in my clutch. He's too much.'_

Zayn grinned down at the movie (and Harry noted a flash of nostalgia in his eyes), before turning back to him and shrugging coolly. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”

Harry nodded and grinned, because _Zayn_.

He shuffled away (as his guest started to unravel his scarf and unbutton his coat) through the arch and into the kitchen. He grabbed two mugs out of one of the cabinets and walked over to the sink to fill them both with water. Harry shoved them into the microwave (which he thought twice about immediately, because it was _very_ likely to explode on him - with what he and Niall had put it through) and punched in two minutes to heat the liquid. He leant back against the counter, knuckles gripping the ledge, and watched the television screen. What he could see of it - the wall cut it off at an odd angle. Mrs. Claus was shuffling two elves into a sleigh, and pushing up off of the ground to fly through the sky. A sleigh. If he happened to find one of _those_ , there would be no worry about if he’d be able to get home. When the timer dinged, he popped the door open (which stuck badly in it’s place), grabbed the handles, and tried to stifle a small yell at the finish burning his skin - before emptying packets of hot chocolate mix. “I’m supposed to be drinking _homemade_ hot chocolate, by this time tomorrow,” he mumbled loud enough for Zayn to hear, as he made his way back across the carpet and into the living room to set the cups down.

Zayn was sat on the edge of the couch, hunched over the coffee table. He raised his gaze to meet Harry’s eyes and pointed a finger to the letter still sat there against the surface. “Congrats,” he hummed conversationally, and then had the decency (or at least the know) to look sheepish. “Sorry. It was just right… there.”

"No, it’s fine… and… thanks."

Zayn dipped his head at a downward angle and smirked towards his lap. “Then again… you _did_ read _my_ book. So, that seems like a fair trade.” Harry watched Zayn’s small hands reach out to grab for the mug intended for him, and raise the rim to the edge of his lips to take a large gulp. Not even wincing at the heat on his tongue. Harry tried to school his face, because this was the second time Zayn had mentioned Harry’s knowledge of his work. And this time, it was spoken outright - and there was a hint of mirth in his tone. “You’re a worse spy than Liam - and that’s saying _a lot_.”

He wasn’t sure about Liam’s covert capabilities, or any of his previous missions. But he felt like he should be offended (even if he wasn’t really), so he muttered a half-hearted, “ _Heyyy_.”

Zayn knocked a bended knee against the bare of his thigh, and prompted him to sit down. It was strange to be guided to do something in his own home, but it seemed familiar all the same. And if Harry really thought about it, Zayn spent a lot of time subtly leading him in the right direction. Intentional or not. Like, when he’d given Harry the advice to tear The Photos down and box away The Things. While Harry sat behind the counter at Book Ends, Zayn often suggested complimenting works to whatever he’d been reading for class. He told Harry to go to Eleanor’s party. He’d guided Harry into wanting to kiss him - which was a tricky and impressive web that he very much appreciated. And then there was the best of them all. The one Harry was sure Zayn hadn’t meant. He’d lead him to want to work again. To want to take a photo and have it actually mean something.

"I should… go put some clothes on," Harry shuffled on his feet and tittered in decision between moving in the direction of his room or just moving to take a seat.

Zayn smiled up at him lazily - and Harry decided that, _yes_ , SubtleSmilingZayn was even more so attractive than PoutingMysteriousZayn. If that was even possible. “I don’t mind,” the boy’s voice sounded, accompanied by a flick of his eyes. “I’ve been _wondering_ what’s been under the Cosby jumpers.” Harry didn’t need to look down to note the red flush of embarrassment covering every inch of his body. Every piece of imperfection and baby fat that refused to leave  - no matter what he did. It wasn’t really up to the appropriate standards to be stood in front of someone who looked like Zayn did. Because he’d _seen_ Zayn without a shirt before and… yeah. Definitely not up to the appropriate standards. “It’s really fucking hot in here, too. So, like, don’t be put out by me.”

Harry stayed put for a few more seconds, watching Zayn watch him, before carefully taking a seat on the second cushion. If the other occupant of the couch were Niall - Harry would of thrown himself down with wild abandon and immediately settled his head in his friend’s lap. Looking for cuddles. But, despite the fact that a week prior the pair of them had gotten quite… _close_ and had texted (awkwardly on Harry’s part) back and forth the days after, he still wasn’t sure how he was supposed to act around Zayn. He wasn’t sure if certain sorts-of behaviors would startle the lad and frighten him away. Because the fact was, Zayn hadn’t ever seen that side of him before. Harry had used to be clingy with _everyone_ , whether they liked it or not. And he liked to believe they all liked it, because they smiled and nudged his shoulders. He prided himself in his ability to wrap lanky arms around someone and make them comfortable. But then his nasty split with Mark happened and he… stopped. But as time went on and on, Harry did just what Zayn said he would. He healed somewhat without realising it. Not completely, because he wasn’t sure you were ever supposed to brush aside your first serious relationship. But, at some point he’d taken to giving Niall hugs again and a slap to the butt (because Harry was just that sort-of person) and a cuddle on the couch.

And even all of those thoughts did nothing to sooth him, because Harry was dumb sometimes, but he wasn’t _delusional_. On no side of the scale did he think that Zayn was someone he was able to just… drape himself over. That hadn’t been established as something he was allowed - and honestly he wasn’t sure he had the courage to try anyway. Zayn’s very _presence_ was intimidating. So, Harry shakily set his mug down on the coffee table, next to a ring a bottle of beer had probably produced, and brought his hands together to shove between the space in his thighs. “So…,” he started - his eyes trained on his skin pressed up against his fingers, keeping his hands warm. God, Zayn didn’t know him at all. And he didn’t know Zayn. “… I like Scrabble.” And Harry wasn’t sure why _that_ was what came out of his mouth. So, he closed his eyes briefly to suppress the roll of them and tried to pretend that he wasn’t a loser.

He could see out of his peripheral vision, Zayn’s head slowly turning to face him. His eyebrows were raised in amusement (if Harry guessed correctly) and he Laughed lowly. “Uhm _okay_ … did you want to play, or something?”

"No." His thighs looked splotchy from nerves and Harry wished that his body wasn’t one big giant tell sign, because he couldn’t play cool about _anything_. If he _could_ manage to keep a straight face (which was incredibly rare - he had very telling eyes), the blood pumping through his body was always set to betray him, anyway. And it just… wasn’t fair. “I like playing Football, but I’m not very good… I genuinely like romantic comedies. Even if Niall thinks they’re shit and doesn’t actually want to go and see them with me.” Harry wiggled his fingers against the force of the space. His side eyes showed Zayn rubbing an open palm over a jeaned knee. Not responding. “I like wandering around Tesco and adding things to the basket that we can’t actually afford to waste money on - and watching Niall get annoyed and shove them back. But, he’s smiling when he does it, so… My dad… was going to pay my full tuition if I majored in law, but I obviously didn’t… so he’s only paying a third.”

One elf was bonking another on the top of the head, and noting the falling snow. There were extreme circumstances when Harry had wondered if it was some sort-of skin condition. Surely no human was allowed to turn this red at the drop of a hat? “I do that with Liam,” Zayn broke the growing silence - where Harry had taken to observing the length of his legs in medical uncertainty - with a laugh in his voice. God, Harry couldn’t breathe, but he couldn’t be bothered to get up and turn down the heat, either. “Embarrassing things. To make him stutter when we get to the till. Like, extra small condoms and peach flavored lube. Uhm… I like apples. I’m not quite as serious as I look… Nice to meet you.”

When Harry turned his head more fully, Zayn’s eyes were grinning at him in a way Harry didn’t think was humanly possible. He was playing with him. Going along with it. A game Harry hadn’t precisely meant to start. “Nice to meet you, too.”

"You kind-of remind me of someone," Zayn scrunched his eyebrows together and continued to rub at his knee.

“ _Oh?_ Who?” And visions of all of the people who’d had opportunities to sit next to Zayn on a couch, started playing. Visions of people who weren’t afraid to pull a mug out of his hands and scoot closer, like they wanted to. Old boyfriends, perhaps. Or old girlfriends. Long lost friends, or current classmates. It was more than possible that Harry would never know.

"Yeah, like, there was this really fit bloke the other week who showed up at my flat in the middle of the night. You seem a lot like him."

Harry dropped his head into his hands, because he couldn’t possibly look any more ridiculous than he did at that moment. There was a dizzy smile etching it’s way across his features and he was sure that his cheeks were glowing warm. “He must of been lovely,” he muttered into the dark of his palms. “Because I’m just a _joy_ to be around.”

"Yeah, you are." And, okay. Harry was being sarcastic, but Zayn seemed to push away that tone and run with it. He did that a lot, Harry had noted. Brushed aside some of his statements, as if he didn’t quite agree, but thought it best not to outwardly say it. The movement of his palm stilled - Harry couldn’t see it, but the sound of brushed against fabric had lowered and stopped. And then there was a small clink, as Zayn placed his mug down next to his abandoned one. Harry could see bits of that, through the small slits in his cupped fingers. And he could see the light surrounding him dim somewhat as Zayn’s form shifted closer.

Blunt fingers, fading warmth from the side of a mug, wrapped carefully but purposefully around the skin of Harry’s wrist and pulled one hand away from his face. Harry chose not to change the direction of his focus - eyes landing somewhere in the middle of the wood table in front of him. But, he noted and allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of Zayn casually working their fingers together, into something of an embrace. Rough in texture. Soft in movement. “We can talk all about each other. If that’s what you want,” Zayn’s voice floated towards him from somewhere much further away than where he actually sat. “It’ll be cool.”

And, in the beginning, Harry hadn’t ever _really_ allowed himself to think about what Zayn was like as a person - behind the flawless features. He hadn’t ever imagined that the person walking up and down the aisles of _Book Ends_ would be interested in how little Harry had to say. He hadn’t considered that the slender fingers that ran up multiple book spines would weave their way into his own. And it was nice. And scary. And Harry was certain that this was… just weird.

Zayn raised his hand, pulling Harry’s with him, up to the front of his face - and pressed a small kiss to the knuckles. “I wasn’t sure what to major in,” Harry listened to Zayn hum against his skin, where he’d yet to move them. “When I thought about English and Literature…” another kiss further up his arm. “My parents wanted me to get a teaching degree, so that there’d, like, at least be a ‘point’.” Harry allowed Zayn to carefully push their hands down onto the sofa cushions. “But I didn’t _really_ want that, so I mentioned getting an art degree.” Harry let his eyes drift down to where Zayn was pulling socked feet (And Harry let his mind quirk at the tiny pineapples covering the black fabric. Fucking _Pineapples_.) up onto the cushions and crawl just a little forward. “I’ve never seen my dad look so scandalised.” There was a small laugh on Zayn’s tongue that Harry could tell was only just a small amount of amusement. Mostly hurt. He watched Zayn mentally shove it away, though, and crowd down some - to use his free hand against the side of his face. Contact similar to the week prior, when Zayn had backed him against a kitchen wall. “But I love what I’m doing, now. And, like, I still draw, so…”

Harry turned his full attention towards Zayn, then, as the boy in front of him let his thumb trail towards the plump of his bottom lip. Zayn was real. Zayn was a _real_ person. Harry forgot that, sometimes, whenever he was shuffling through his work trying to determine why his project had been and continued to be so hard. Zayn was real and he was touching him, as if he really wanted to. And Zayn was looking at him, as if he really wanted to. “I like cheese.”

Harry watched Zayn drop his forehead to his own and let out the happiest laugh he’d ever heard the boy produce. The corners of his mouth peaked up and his eyes crinkled at the corners. Zayn was _probably_ making fun of him, it wouldn’t be a surprise. In all honesty, Harry would be making fun of Zayn if the situation had been reversed. “I like cheese, too,” Zayn chuckled mostly to himself, as he attempted to stifle the sounds. Almost successful, but not quite.

Zayn looked ridiculous, this close to Harry’s face. He hadn’t noticed it in Zayn’s kitchen, because he was too busy having a breakdown. But, since Zayn had walked through his front door, he’d been more… embarrassed than panicky. So, he was getting an opportunity to really look. Zayn looked _ridiculous_. No person alive should of been able to have such glowing clear skin (something Harry would kick a bunny for - not really, he loved bunnies) and strong jaw lines. No person’s eyes should shine so bright. And his tongue stuck to the back of his front teeth when he smiled, and Harry thought it was so adorable that he wanted to sink into the couch.

 _Fucking ridiculous_.

"You’re so weird," Zayn continued to laugh, but it was a quieter fonder sound than it had been, previously. Harry let his eyes droop closed, briefly, when Zayn’s lips brushed against the side of his cheek. Not a kiss, really, more an acknowledgment of sorts.

"I’m sorry."

But Zayn was shaking his head and continuing to rub lightly at his lip, “Nothing to be sorry about.” Zayn caught his eyes and leant in to capture their lips together. And yep. Still good. But Harry didn’t get a long chance to enjoy it, because Zayn pulled away and directed his attention to the crook of his neck. “I love those ice lollies that you snip at the end,” Harry listened to Zayn - his voice cutting off every now and then, as he peppered kisses.

"Yeah," Harry breathed. "Those are really good." And Harry had been promised that they’d carry on where they had earlier left off. But, he hadn’t expected it to be when he was roasting in his pants and having a crisis over whether or not a snow storm was going to keep him from Figgy Pudding. "Figgy Pudding," was all he mumbled, echoing his thoughts.

"It _is_ Christmas,” Zayn nipped at his skin - and Harry refused to admit the embarrassing sound that pushed it’s way from his throat. He just felt… small under Zayn’s form… but _not_ … all at the same time. Which was just unexpected and confusing. Harry never tended to feel small next to anybody. He wasn’t a _giant_ by any means, but he was tall enough and broad. He could probably carry thriry watermelons in one hand if he tried hard enough. Okay. Probably not. But he _was_ a Something that other people weren’t. And there was a time where everyone knew it, just as well. He still looked the same. He still dressed the same. Still the same hair and hands and feet. His nose still moved subtly up and down when he spoke. And Harry was sure his personality was just as it had always been… somewhere and somehow, it _was_. And there were times (through all of the unsure sweat and red flush) when Zayn was near that Harry had some inkling of that. A desire to break away from the embarrassment and watered down version he’d become, to… not _impress_ per se, but to be able to show that he wasn’t This person. He was more fun than this. Better company. But at the same time, Harry felt intimidated and _small_. Zayn was close to his height and smaller in frame, but just… present. Very present.

Just like Zayn’s tongue, which was running along his bottom lip. And Harry couldn’t remember when Zayn had initiated an actual kiss, but apparently he’d been participating. Fingers were thread through Harry’s hair, pulling ever so slightly to tilt his head in the direction he wanted, and somehow Harry had been pushed flush against the couch.

It was nice.

And hot.

_'I'm Mister Green Christmas. I'm Mister Sun. I'm Mister Heat Blister. I'm Mister Hundred and One.'_

But, like, _actually_ hot. Harry could feel a thin layer of sweat touched on his brow and the base of his neck. And all of his thoughts swirled back round to should having turned down the thermostat. But, Zayn didn’t seem to mind and instead pulled away from Harry’s mouth to _lick_ a line along the length of it. And that along with the idea of Zayn licking other lengths, went straight down. “I don’t like pasta,” Zayn bit softly - still talking - at his collar bone. “I’m not sure why.”

"I love pasta," Harry pushed up despite the fact that he had nowhere to go, and re-attached them.

But, Zayn broke apart for a second to breathe, “We’ll agree to disagree on that one.”          

~~~

Zayn hadn’t ever intended to walk down Harry’s street, and stop outside Harry’s building, and ring Harry’s buzzer. But he had. He was there. And that’s all there was to it.

When he’d made it to the station, and all of the employees were sliding shut the cages to the ticket booths, his mouth had dropped open in surprise… and annoyance. But he’d accepted (along with all the other passengers - quite grumpily) that they’d have to save their tickets and try again the next morning. He’d walked there to begin with, because everything was close enough together in their area of the big city. But, it had gotten colder and the snow was falling heavier. And Harry’s street was, like, five before his own - and he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. So, he’d walked up the steps and hoped the boy was home.

The idea of getting to see Harry again wasn’t exactly an inconvenience, either. And Zayn let himself hum against Harry’s mouth at just _how much_ he’d gotten to see.

Harry was all smooth angles and those smooth angles felt soft under the pads of his fingers. He was more toned than Zayn had been (For months. At night. With his pajamas around his ankles.) imagining he would be. Harry didn’t have a six pack or anything, but he did have abs. Small, as if he’d been working out, but didn’t really want to. They were similar to his own, Zayn supposed. A symbol of desired dedication, but realistic laziness.

It suited the rest of his features.

And when Zayn had first walked through the door (after making sure his tongue didn’t roll out of his mouth and onto the floor, like an old school cartoon), he’d noticed two oddly placed dots lining Harry’s stomach. He’d noticed long limbs and trails that led to places - so perfectly nicknamed. Happy.

But Zayn wasn’t, as usual, perfectly confident. Unsure if he should angle the lower half of his body away from Harry’s, in case the boy underneath him didn’t want to know what his natural reaction to the slick of Harry’s tongue was. So he did some weird shuffling movement, that he couldn’t explain, without breaking their contact. But, Harry subconsciously pushed up to follow, and Zayn forgot about trying to be modest about how hard he’d gotten.

Zayn blindly led a hand down to fumble open the button of his jeans (that alone eased some of the pressure), and then unabashedly guided the large hand griping his hip in that direction. “I - I forgot what we we’re talking about,” Zayn huffed, as Harry let his hand hover in place.

"I think…" Harry trailed off and attached himself to Zayn’s neck to suck a mark. It was the most confident thing Harry had done since Zayn had walked in the room. And it was also a bit cruel - Harry’s teeth biting - to send him home with a Christmas present that would raise questions and eyebrows from his mum. And probably a knowing (and concerning, because she did not need to know details) smirk from Doniya. Harry pulled back, with one last lick in the spot, to admire his work. "It was something about a love for fruit covered socks."

"Shut _up_. I really like these.” When Harry didn’t move to do… something, _anything_ , Zayn leant back, some, and shoved his trousers and such downward as far as he cared to bother. He clasped his fingers over Harry’s, to wrap them around him. A bit forward, he supposed. And not exactly what he showed up outside Harry’s door, for. He was _honestly_ just freezing, but still.

Zayn froze for half a second, and in that half a second let his mind race to the fact that Harry - _Harry Styles_ \- was touching him and kissing him and looking at him. It was… overwhelming, but _so_ good. And it was actually happening. Zayn wasn’t asking Liam if they could stop to look for a book they both knew _Book Ends_ didn’t carry. He wasn’t glancing through holes in bookcases, back at Harry sat at the counter hunched over course work. He wasn’t avoiding Liam’s gaze when he and Niall sat on their couch playing the X Box (while Zayn sat and watched), and the latter mentioned his roommate doing who knew what.

Zayn honestly couldn’t believe how embarrassing he was.

He couldn’t believe that Perrie had asked if he wanted to go and do ‘something’ a few weeks prior, and he’d turned her down. That he didn’t go just because it was _Perrie_ \- the last person he thought was going to mean something. And it would of been _so_ easy to - to at least take some of the… _frustration_ he was feeling for the Book Store Boy out on her. And she would of _taken it_ and loved it and run her hands through his hair.

But it wouldn’t of felt right.

It wouldn’t of felt like Harry’s hands did, now. The one in his hair _and_ the one Zayn kept wrapped, still.

This was Harry.

Zayn let his head rest down against Harry’s forehead, his eyes falling shut and his breathing carefully controlled. Then, he let his thumb run over Harry’s fingers - just to touch - and started to drag both of their hands down. He couldn’t see, but he could feel as Harry’s free hand left his hair to run down the side of his face. It felt cautious, as if Harry _still_ wasn’t sure if he could touch. And he most definitely could. So, to (yet again) try and silently communicate that, Zayn increased their joint speed and dropped his head further, into the crook of Harry’s neck.

Harry’s flat was _really_ fucking hot.

Zayn breathed against Harry’s neck and attempted to pull himself enough together to pay mind to it. Harry seemed happy by the attention, and used it to start a new rhythm. There was nothing about it that was wrong ( _of_ _course_ there was nothing about it that was wrong), so Zayn let his own fist drop and pull up to hold himself off of Harry’s body, better. His heart rate increased, as the movement increased. And then Harry swept a thumb over the head, and Zayn tried unsuccessfully to hold the moan as he came over Harry’s fist and stomach.

He pulled back in time to see Harry lazily running a finger through the mess, and if Zayn could focus properly - it would be a haphazard drawing of a flower.

 _Harry was drawing a flower in his come_.

It stopped being funny, though, the second he scooped some of the stem up to stick onto his tongue. That was just. And very. Words. Zayn couldn’t think of words. He swore he used to be smoother than this.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Zayn did his best to return as close to his former self, as possible. He pushed his palms up off the cushions, to scoot his body backward and dip his mouth closer to the waist of Harry’s pants. He paused to puff a hot breath and enjoy the small sigh that sounded from above him.

~~~

If there was anything Harry had not prepared to do over the course of this day, it was this.

Harry had planned to splurge the money (because it was Hols, and he was bound to get some more from his Grandparents) and order a pizza. But, the nearest place didn’t deliver and he was too lazy to walk through the snow. He’d thought that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich was a decent alternative, but he and Niall hadn’t gone to the store in awhile and there was no bread. He’d planned to watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman. Harry was prepared to eat too many slices and have a beer or two. That he’d check that his clothes and gifts were all packed. He’d go to sleep early.

A quiet night before a long-ish train ride home.

He’d not planned for Zayn (AtHisHomeZayn) to be mouthing at the bulge in his pants. He’d not planned for Zayn to be tugging the elastic down and gripping him in his hand. And _oh fuck_.

He’d _definitely_ not planned to be swallowed down towards the back of _anybody’s_ throat, let alone Zayn’s. Maybe in his _mind_ , but it wasn’t something he’d actually thought he’d consider for the night and use in anyway.

A quiet night before a long-ish train ride home. That’s it. That’s all he’d expected.

But this was just as well. This was _better_ than just as well. If Harry had to spend a night with Zayn in the Sauna that was once his and Niall’s flat, than so be it. And then there was the simple fact that he hadn’t done anything like this in awhile and he’d been wanting to - he’s a boy after all.

Harry threw his hands up to cover his face, as he gasped over the sensation building in the low of his stomach. And he wasn’t looking (because he wasn’t sure he could handle it), but he could _feel_ Zayn’s responding smirk against him. A few minutes and flicks of wrists later, Zayn placed his palms against the flat of his thighs to hold him down, as Harry tipped over the edge with a ‘Zayn’ on his lips.

Harry pulled away his hands and pushed up on his elbows to look down to Zayn licking away the mess. He would hang a picture of it on his bedroom wall, if he could… and then never let his mum into his home again, just in case she happened to see it. She didn’t love him nearly enough to be proud that he had someone like Zayn going down on him. He shouldn’t be thinking about his mum. But honestly, the desire to run and fetch the camera sitting on his desk was stronger than ever, because the image below him was incredible.

He should probably never mention this happened, to Niall. Well, he should probably never mention the _specific location_. He might never want to sit on the couch again, if he knew too many details.

"Hey," Zayn mumbled lowly, looking up through his lashes and raising up to the right eye line. Harry let Zayn scan his face, because he knew how much the boy liked to do that - even if it made him uncomfortable. Zayn liked to watch people. Zayn liked to analyze the situations he was in. He’d mentioned a long time ago, that he’d been watching Harry - trying to figure him out. So, Harry sat stock still and let his eyes try and communicate that he’d enjoyed this. That he’d wanted this to happen. That he really liked Zayn - even if he had been having a hard time making that clear. That he didn’t want to think about, care about, or mourn the loss of Mark anymore.

Zayn let the corner of his mouth crook up in something of a smile, and he reached out to wrap a hand around the back of Harry’s neck. He relaxed into Zayn’s soft petting and responded when Zayn bent in to give him a kiss.

_briiinnnggg_

Harry pulled his head back, quickly, startled at the sudden sound of his cell interrupting their activities. He grinned at the boy hovering above him (who decided to leave his mouth alone and push his curls back to bite at his ear instead), and reached an arm out to drag his phone across the coffee table and into his hands. His smile fell a little when he read his mum’s name on the screen. Not because his mum was calling him. But, because he was answering the phone naked and covered in… stuff. Stuff his mum didn’t need or _want_ to know about. That sudden “Phone Fear” where she’d just be able to _tell_ , washed over him.

Harry pressed talk anyway and shoved the phone against the ear Zayn wasn’t occupying. “Hey mum,” he greeted with a small cough. A nervous tick.

 _“Hi my baby_ ,” Anne’s voice flowed into his ear. _“The news has been saying trains are shut down, yeah?”_

"Mmhmm," Harry attempted to shove Zayn away, keep the phone held to his ear, and tug his pants back up all at the same time.

_“That’s what I thought. So, I sent Gemma after you a couple of hours ago. She hadn’t left work yet, and you’re on the way.”_

Harry couldn’t focus on what was being said, so he fixed his most stern stare off in Zayn’s direction, and received a silent laugh in return. Harry knew he wasn’t very menacing, but some cooperation would’ve been appreciated. “What? I’m sorry, I… I missed all of that.”

_“I said Gemma’s going to be at your flat soon to pick you up, so you won’t be stuck at school. The tree’s just sitting here waiting for you, sweets. She should be there soon.”_

"Yeah? Yeah, okay that’s great. I should… clean up before she get’s here."

_"Clean up?"_

"Oh it’s… nothing. Okay! Yeah, I’ll see you soon."

 _“Alright, honey. I’ll see you in a little while. I love you,”_ his mum cooed. And Harry knew she’d been missing him and needed to see for herself how he was doing. It was strange, for her to end a call and not tell him to give her best to Mark. He took note of the change.

"Yep, I love you too. Bye." Harry pressed to end the call and dropped the phone back down to the surface of the table. He let out a loud sigh, but started to laugh when he realised Zayn was shaking against him. "You’re very helpful," Harry joked - and then remembered their state. As Zayn sat up, Harry looked down over himself and tried not to blush, which he failed at. He should probably shower. "My sister is coming to get me…" Harry trailed off.

Zayn was standing up for the couch, with his bottoms still pushed down. He started to shuffle, though, to pull them up and tuck himself inside. “That’s cool,” he hummed and ran fingers through his hair to try and fix it a little. “You should probably wipe that off, before she shows up.” And he was making fun of Harry now - which had the flush returning.

"I’m going to hop in the shower," Harry laughed quietly and dragged himself off of the couch. He started down the hall before he paused and spun around. "Don’t leave-" he started, but Zayn had already resituated himself on the couch, with his feet propped on the coffee table and his mug in hand. He apparently hadn’t been planning to - and that brought on another smile that Harry had to turn away before Zayn saw it. Even though he was still as unsure about himself as ever, he was _happy_ to feel like this. This was good.

He walked into the bathroom and turned on the water.

~~~

Ten minutes later, Harry wrapped a towel around his waist and ran down the hall to his bedroom. He grabbed a clean enough pair of jeans out of his hamper and a jumper he’d been wearing for five days straight - and pulled them on. Then, he dragged his suitcase and bag of presents out and down into the living room, where Zayn was shoving his feet into a pair of shoes. “I’ve got to head home and figure out my next move,” Zayn spoke when he saw Harry returning. “I don’t live far, and the train will more than likely be up tomorrow.”

"… Are you sure you want to head out, already?" Harry questioned and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah, it’s alright," Zayn paused his movements of pulling his gloves on, to look Harry squarely in the face. "Do you want to do something after Holidays?" he asked - and his tone fit into a register Harry very rarely heard from the boy. A worried sort-of tone. "We can… get, like, dinner or something."

Harry was nodding before Zayn finished the question, because yes. This was _good_. This was _not_ Mark. This was _Zayn_. Zayn, who wanted to be around Harry and wrote him sweet things and was smart and confident and cool and completely un-arrogant. “Absolutely,” Harry agreed and pulled a hand out to wipe a drop of water trying to make it’s way from his drying hair and down the side of his neck. “Definitely.”

A knock at the door broke their eye contact, and Harry rushed over and pulled it open to reveal his sister. Tall and very much looking like him, except her hair wasn’t wet with shower, but _snow_. And she didn’t look all that thrilled to be there. “You ready?” was all she asked, before noting Zayn’s presence and quirking an eyebrow at Harry.

"Hey Gemma!" Harry walked backwards to wrap a hand around his things. "That’s Zayn," he motioned.

Zayn tipped a hand in greeting and offered a small ‘hello’, and then turned around to face Harry. “I’ll see you when everyone gets back,” he smiled small - shy all of a sudden. And Harry could understand why, because Gemma’s gaze was strong and off-putting. But, Harry stilled and grinned (mostly to himself and the boy in front of him) when Zayn leaned over to place a small but promising peck onto his cheek. “Happy Christmas,” he said to both of them after pulling away, grabbed his things, and headed out the door with his own bag.

Harry watched Zayn leave. And then Harry watched Gemma watch Zayn leave. They were silent for a small while - both of them standing there and Gemma just watching him. “…. That’s Zayn,” Harry repeated and went to pull his coat and shoes on without another word.

Gemma brushed her hair back over her shoulder and twirled her car keys in her hands, “So you said.”

Harry pointedly ignored the look on her face and made a show to _show_ that he was pointedly ignoring the look on her face. Which might of defeated the point, but oh well. “Let’s head home.”

"So _about_ Zayn-“

"-Get in the car, Gemma," Harry interupted. But he was smiling and he could feel his face turning red. So, he ushered her into the hall, switched off the lights, and shut the door.


End file.
